5 M/M Books That I Cannot Wait To Start Binge Reading

When a few years ago all I read is M/f books, lately, I find myself getting more and more into M/M books. I’m not sure when this all started – lies, I totally know when the whole addiction for M/M books started, but that’s a story for another time – but I have totally fallen head over heels for this genre. For some reason, the more books I read in that genre, the more addicted I get towards it.

And accommodating to my new found love for M/M books, my TBR (To Be Read) lists and book shelves are also changed alongside it (read: there is a way too many M/M books than what is sane in my shelves right now, but I ain’t complaining.)

With my new addiction to this genre, it also means that all I do these days are scouring new books to add into my TBR shelf. There are a lot of M/M standalone and series that I cannot wait to get my hands on, and today, I am going to list the books I am most excited to read in the near future.

1. Off Base (Out of Uniform #1)

Genre : M/M Romance, Military, Contemporary

Type : Hexalogy ( 6 books )

Status : On-Going Series

BLURB :

After trading the barracks for a fixer-upper rental, navy SEAL Zack Nelson wants peace, not a roommate—especially not Pike, who sees things about Zack he most wants to hide. Pike’s flirting puts virgin Zack on edge. And the questions Pike’s arrival would spark from Zack’s teammates about his own sexuality? Nope. Not going there. But Zack can’t refuse.

Pike Reynolds knows there won’t be a warm welcome in his new home. What can he say? He’s an acquired taste. But he needs this chance to get his life together. Also, teasing the uptight SEAL will be hella fun. Still, Pike has to tread carefully; he’s had his fill of tourists in the past, and he can’t risk his heart on another, not even one as hot, as built—and, okay, yeah, as adorable—as Zack.

Living with Pike crumbles Zack’s restraint and fuels his curiosity. He discovers how well they fit together in bed…in the shower…in the hallway… He needs Pike more than he could have imagined, yet he doesn’t know how to be the man Pike deserves.

”Excerpt”

CHAPTER ONE

June

“What do you mean they’re not coming?” Zack tried hard to sound like the badass navy SEAL he was now. He’d passed all sorts of interrogation training—there was no reason he couldn’t hide that he didn’t particularly like this guy. Or this fancy bar where he and his nontrendy clothes and military haircut were out of place. He’d agreed to go out for drinks with a group. His friend Ryan had promised him a drink for finishing his SEAL qualification training and getting his trident, and Zack had figured dealing with the rest of Ryan’s crowd wouldn’t be horrible. But tolerable was a far cry from being stranded alone with Pike freaking Reynolds without Ryan as a buffer.

“They blew two tires getting out of Santa Monica and are waiting on a repair truck now. Ryan said to have fun without them.” Pike looked harmless enough—shorter than Zack with a lean build and bright red hair and freckles that made him look too young to drink—but Zack knew from experience he was anything but benign. Pike was the type of guy who would flirt with wallpaper, but he seemed to have singled Zack out for special attention ever since their first meeting at a LAN party.

Which was all well and good, but unlike a lot of Ryan’s crowd, Zack wasn’t openly gay. And what Zack hated was that Pike seemed to see through all his “no, really I’m straight” protests and see things Zack refused to even think about. And a whole night with Pike? Torture. And that was coming from someone who’d been tossed into frigid water with his arms and legs bound. Repeatedly.

But he’d happily endure another round of drownproof training if it meant an easy out of this situation.

“Is Landon coming?” Please say it’s not just us. Surely, Pike’s omnipresent sidekick would be there to bail Zack out.

“Nope. He’s doing research at the Hadron Collider for the next few months. Just us, I think.” Pike grinned at him. “Alone at last, right?”

Zack guessed that the Hadron was one of those supersmart things Pike’s crowd just assumed everyone else knew about. He certainly wasn’t about to appear dumb and ask. “You don’t have to stick around on my account,” he said instead.

“Dude.” Pike smacked him on the shoulder. “I’ve had a shit week. Another three interviews for jobs for the fall, another three fuckups on my part. Don’t make me drink alone.”

“I guess I could do a beer.”

“On me, right? We’re all super stoked that you passed SQT.” Pike gave him another of those disarming smiles.

Zack shoved his phone away. Nope, no way was he doing shots with Pike. Last thing he needed was to get drunk and forget himself around the guy.

“So what’ll it be? They have a whole selection of craft beers here.” Pike offered him one of the little bar menus artfully strewn around on the huge antique wood bar.

“A Bud’s fine,” Zack said. He’d never developed a taste for the fancy stuff. This whole place was fancier than he was used to, what with the exposed hardwoods everywhere, the prettified bar food emerging from the kitchen, and the painted inspirational quotes behind the bar. Even the name, Mellow, was a far cry from the hole-in-the-wall places he’d drunk at in college or even Big Ted’s, the little sports bar right off base that his fellow SEALs favored.

Pike signaled the burly bartender, who frowned at them after Pike gave their order for a Bud and some fancy-ass beer Zack had never heard of. “Hand stamps, please. Both of you.”

Zack stuck his hand out, showing that the bouncer had indeed checked his ID. Pike put his arm right next to Zack’s—way too close for comfort. “See, look at us, finding things in common.”

“Getting carded is hardly something to be proud of,” Zack mumbled as he pulled his arm away. Back in San Diego, when he went to the bars with his friends, they never got carded anymore. And he liked that—he was twenty-three now, for crying out loud.

“Of course it’s not for you, Muscles.” Pike did that whole standing-too-close thing again, moving over so others could get to the bar.

Zack really shouldn’t like that Pike noticed what the past few months of training had done for his physique. He’d always been lean, but days of log—and boat-carry drills had carved out muscles he hadn’t even been aware he had. Zack accepted his beer from the bartender, then followed Pike to one of the little high-top tables ringing the bar area.

“Seriously, you are jacked now.” Pike winked at him, giving him the sort of once-over Zack’s buddies gave girls in bikinis. “Look at those shoulders. It even makes you look taller.”

Flattery was not going to work on Zack. Not even a bit. Besides, Pike was the short one, probably five seven or so. But Zack was a perfectly respectable five ten. In your boots.

“Truth, man. I just call it like I see it.” Pike shrugged. And that right there was the whole problem with Pike—he had absolutely no filter and a way too keen sense of observation.

Zack had to look away before Pike turned that sense on him again and saw how much he liked all the compliments. He looked around the bar, but instead of that calming him down, his tension ratcheted way the hell back up. Next to them, two guys were snuggled up all cozy, chairs touching, arms around each other’s shoulders. Across the room, two women held hands, and he counted a few more pairings that could be guy-guy or girl-girl couples.

“What kind of bar is this?” he hissed.

Pike gave another casual roll of his slim shoulders. “It’s West Hollywood, man. Very mixed crowd is to be expected, you know?”

No, Zack did not know that, thank you very much. He figured Ryan and his boyfriend wouldn’t drink anywhere too conservative, but he’d also assumed they wouldn’t drag him to a gay bar.

“Dude. You look like you just discovered mouse poop in your fries. I promise no one’s taking away your het cred just because the quilt bag crowd likes to drink here too.”

Zack shook his head partly because he wasn’t sure what all the letters stood for in quilt bag and partly because het cred was seriously the least of his worries. “It’s fine,” he lied.

“Can I see the trident pin?” Pike leaned forward. This was part of the…thing about Pike. He loved all things military, knew all the acronyms, and made no secret about finding uniforms hot. It made it so that Zack was never sure if Pike was truly interested in what he had to say or if it was all about feeding his SEAL fantasies. And why Zack cared about that distinction, he couldn’t say.

“I don’t go wearing it out bar hopping.” Zack gave him a hard glare, one that usually convinced others to fall in line, but it didn’t seem to faze Pike.

“So tell me about SQT. Was it as hard as BUD/S?” Pike’s devilish smile said that he’d be happy to venture into more…inappropriate topics if Zack didn’t take this bait.

“Nah. I was so damn glad they didn’t roll me all the way back to Hell Week that SQT was almost a relief.” Zack had broken his leg during the jump training portion of SEAL training that followed BUD/S, and he’d been hella nervous until the review board said he only had to repeat the jump training before joining the next SEAL class at SQT. He’d heard about guys rolled all the way to the start of BUD/S when they got a med drop.

“And now you’ve got your platoon assignment, right? All new guys? When do you get deployed, you think?”

Zack laughed at the stacked questions. Pike played too many warfare games. “Yeah. I’m here for the weekend because I got some leave after finishing SQT, but I’ll be based out of Coronado with my new team. And no, not all new guys. Couple of guys from BUD/S and SQT got assigned to the same platoon.” He kept his voice as casual as he could, trying not to reveal how fucked-up it was that he’d been assigned to the same platoon as Cobb, the guy who’d made his life hell in BUD/S. And to make matters worse, they were only a few rooms apart in the fucking barracks.

“So you guys will be doing real missions soon?” Pike pressed. And fuck, wouldn’t Cobb have a field day with Zack being in this place with Pike? Christ, just the thought had him taking a deep pull from his beer.

Zack groaned. “I wish. We’re looking at another twelve to eighteen months of training before we get into the field.” All the training was intense, but he couldn’t wait to get out there for real—it was what he’d signed up to do, why he’d done the navy SEAL challenge when enlisting, what he’d dreamed about for years.

“Excuse me.” A pretty blonde woman, shorter than Pike, even in teetering heels, rested an arm on their table.

“Yeah?” Zack said warily.

“My friends and I have a bet.” She pointed over her shoulder at a group of young women crowded around one of the tables.

“Oh?” Pike was way more enthusiastic than Zack would have been, giving the woman a friendly grin.

“Zack’s the one who plays for your team,” Pike said all casually, jerking his thumb in Zack’s direction, but there was a challenge in his eyes.

“Fabulous.” She looked Zack over in a way that made his stomach cramp. Unlike when Pike scoped you out. He knew her gaze was supposed to make his blood hum, make him start thinking sexy things, but instead it kind of creeped him out.

“Hey—” Zack started to protest, but the woman was already grabbing his wrist.

You’re the one who’s always on about how straight you are,Pike’s eyes said as he didn’t move at all to rescue Zack, instead saying, “Go on now. I’ll keep the table and order some fries for when you get back.”

Nothing to do other than drain his beer in one swallow and follow the woman to the dance floor at the far end of the establishment, separated from the rest of the bar by a low wall.

She was cute in a little silver tank top and smelled liked the wisteria in his mom’s front yard, and Zack supposed he should be thinking how good her chest looked in the tight top or how much he wanted that scent all over him, but…yeah, not happening. Still, though, he’d been down this road enough times to know the drill, and he liked dancing, liked letting music move through him, even if the partner stuff did get tricky. The dance mix pumped out a fast beat, enabling him to keep space between them. And she was good, not stomping his feet or draping herself all over him. One dance and he’d politely send her back to her friends.

Near them, a couple—a guy-guy couple to be exact—danced super close. Fuck. One of them wore some sort of spicy aftershave and had a low chuckle for his partner that went right to Zack’s gut. The two shared a private look and a kiss so dirty that Zack couldn’t look away. He’d seen Ryan cuddle up to his boyfriend a couple of times, but that sort of playfulness was a far cry from this…fireworks show inches from him.

“Hey.” The woman tugged on his arm. “Your friend was wrong, wasn’t he?”

“What?” Zack forced his eyes back to her. “Just…not used to…never mind.”

“It’s okay.” She gave him a knowing smile. “Thanks for the dance.” And she headed back to her friends with a little flip of her hair. Fuck. Zack had been figuring he’d buy her a drink, get her off the scent of whatever trail she thought she was on, but she’d dismissed him, clear as day.

“Strike out?” Pike asked when Zack made his way back to the table.

“She had to get back to her friends.” Zack tried to sound regretful but doubted he was all that convincing.

“Fry?” Pike passed him a basket of sweet potato fries with some sort of mayo-based dipping sauce that was far spicier than it looked.

“Whoa.” Zack fanned his mouth, then noticed his beer had already been refilled. He took a swig. “Thanks, man.”

“Not into spicy?” Pike managed to make the question sound rather suggestive.

Zack could survive hours of surf torture, but he couldn’t control his blush. “Nah.”

“That’s okay.” Pike swiped a ketchup out of the condiment display on the back edge of their table, passed it to him. “Simple’s good too.”

Zack honestly wasn’t sure whether they were talking about fries anymore, but he nodded. “So…crap week?” he asked partly to avoid a long awkward silence and partly because he figured even Pike couldn’t flirt while bitching.

“Oh man, you have no idea. Defended my dissertation back in the winter. I thought I had a job all lined up with War Elf—”

“That huge role-playing game?”

“Yeah. I did my dissertation on a statistical analysis model of their users’ usage habits over time.”

“Impressive.” Zack blinked. He had a degree himself, but his BA in history didn’t include the wherewithal to decipher all the lingo needed for a math PhD.

“Yeah, anyway, I was told they might have a place for me, but they don’t, so now I’m stuck tossing my hat in the teaching ring. And it sucks.”

“You don’t want to teach?”

“Do I look like professor material?” Pike gestured at himself. Zack let himself do the one thing he tried to avoid and really looked at Pike—faded T-shirt advertising the game Ryan’s boyfriend worked for, ripped jeans. Surprisingly full pink lips. Twinkling green eyes—wait. Clothes. He was supposed to be noticing clothes.

“Not exactly,” Zack mumbled into his napkin.

“I had to wear a suit three times this week,” Pike moaned.

“Dude, until you have to wear the same soggy BDUs for five days running, you don’t get to complain.”

“Okay, okay, you win. I’m just saying that this whole adulting thing bites.”

Zack had seen enough suckage in his life to decide that “adulting” was practically a vacation, but he nodded because a “suck it up, buttercup” wasn’t going to go over well with Pike’s pity party.

“You know what we should do?” Pike brightened, getting a gleam in his eye that frightened Zack more than a live grenade. “Shots. We need to do shots.”

Across the room, the woman from earlier was talking to her friends and as if on cue, the whole table tittered and three blond heads swiveled in his direction before returning to the giggle fest. Fuck.

He knew he’d regret this, probably within the hour, but at that moment he couldn’t stop his head from nodding. “Bring it on.”

CHAPTER ONE

June

“What do you mean they’re not coming?” Zack tried hard to sound like the badass navy SEAL he was now. He’d passed all sorts of interrogation training—there was no reason he couldn’t hide that he didn’t particularly like this guy. Or this fancy bar where he and his nontrendy clothes and military haircut were out of place. He’d agreed to go out for drinks with a group. His friend Ryan had promised him a drink for finishing his SEAL qualification training and getting his trident, and Zack had figured dealing with the rest of Ryan’s crowd wouldn’t be horrible. But tolerable was a far cry from being stranded alone with Pike freaking Reynolds without Ryan as a buffer.

“They blew two tires getting out of Santa Monica and are waiting on a repair truck now. Ryan said to have fun without them.” Pike looked harmless enough—shorter than Zack with a lean build and bright red hair and freckles that made him look too young to drink—but Zack knew from experience he was anything but benign. Pike was the type of guy who would flirt with wallpaper, but he seemed to have singled Zack out for special attention ever since their first meeting at a LAN party.

Which was all well and good, but unlike a lot of Ryan’s crowd, Zack wasn’t openly gay. And what Zack hated was that Pike seemed to see through all his “no, really I’m straight” protests and see things Zack refused to even think about. And a whole night with Pike? Torture. And that was coming from someone who’d been tossed into frigid water with his arms and legs bound. Repeatedly.

But he’d happily endure another round of drownproof training if it meant an easy out of this situation.

“Is Landon coming?” Please say it’s not just us. Surely, Pike’s omnipresent sidekick would be there to bail Zack out.

“Nope. He’s doing research at the Hadron Collider for the next few months. Just us, I think.” Pike grinned at him. “Alone at last, right?”

Zack guessed that the Hadron was one of those supersmart things Pike’s crowd just assumed everyone else knew about. He certainly wasn’t about to appear dumb and ask. “You don’t have to stick around on my account,” he said instead.

“Dude.” Pike smacked him on the shoulder. “I’ve had a shit week. Another three interviews for jobs for the fall, another three fuckups on my part. Don’t make me drink alone.”

“I guess I could do a beer.”

“On me, right? We’re all super stoked that you passed SQT.” Pike gave him another of those disarming smiles.

Zack shoved his phone away. Nope, no way was he doing shots with Pike. Last thing he needed was to get drunk and forget himself around the guy.

“So what’ll it be? They have a whole selection of craft beers here.” Pike offered him one of the little bar menus artfully strewn around on the huge antique wood bar.

“A Bud’s fine,” Zack said. He’d never developed a taste for the fancy stuff. This whole place was fancier than he was used to, what with the exposed hardwoods everywhere, the prettified bar food emerging from the kitchen, and the painted inspirational quotes behind the bar. Even the name, Mellow, was a far cry from the hole-in-the-wall places he’d drunk at in college or even Big Ted’s, the little sports bar right off base that his fellow SEALs favored.

Pike signaled the burly bartender, who frowned at them after Pike gave their order for a Bud and some fancy-ass beer Zack had never heard of. “Hand stamps, please. Both of you.”

Zack stuck his hand out, showing that the bouncer had indeed checked his ID. Pike put his arm right next to Zack’s—way too close for comfort. “See, look at us, finding things in common.”

“Getting carded is hardly something to be proud of,” Zack mumbled as he pulled his arm away. Back in San Diego, when he went to the bars with his friends, they never got carded anymore. And he liked that—he was twenty-three now, for crying out loud.

“Of course it’s not for you, Muscles.” Pike did that whole standing-too-close thing again, moving over so others could get to the bar.

Zack really shouldn’t like that Pike noticed what the past few months of training had done for his physique. He’d always been lean, but days of log—and boat-carry drills had carved out muscles he hadn’t even been aware he had. Zack accepted his beer from the bartender, then followed Pike to one of the little high-top tables ringing the bar area.

“Seriously, you are jacked now.” Pike winked at him, giving him the sort of once-over Zack’s buddies gave girls in bikinis. “Look at those shoulders. It even makes you look taller.”

Flattery was not going to work on Zack. Not even a bit. Besides, Pike was the short one, probably five seven or so. But Zack was a perfectly respectable five ten. In your boots.

“Truth, man. I just call it like I see it.” Pike shrugged. And that right there was the whole problem with Pike—he had absolutely no filter and a way too keen sense of observation.

Zack had to look away before Pike turned that sense on him again and saw how much he liked all the compliments. He looked around the bar, but instead of that calming him down, his tension ratcheted way the hell back up. Next to them, two guys were snuggled up all cozy, chairs touching, arms around each other’s shoulders. Across the room, two women held hands, and he counted a few more pairings that could be guy-guy or girl-girl couples.

“What kind of bar is this?” he hissed.

Pike gave another casual roll of his slim shoulders. “It’s West Hollywood, man. Very mixed crowd is to be expected, you know?”

No, Zack did not know that, thank you very much. He figured Ryan and his boyfriend wouldn’t drink anywhere too conservative, but he’d also assumed they wouldn’t drag him to a gay bar.

“Dude. You look like you just discovered mouse poop in your fries. I promise no one’s taking away your het cred just because the quilt bag crowd likes to drink here too.”

Zack shook his head partly because he wasn’t sure what all the letters stood for in quilt bag and partly because het cred was seriously the least of his worries. “It’s fine,” he lied.

“Can I see the trident pin?” Pike leaned forward. This was part of the…thing about Pike. He loved all things military, knew all the acronyms, and made no secret about finding uniforms hot. It made it so that Zack was never sure if Pike was truly interested in what he had to say or if it was all about feeding his SEAL fantasies. And why Zack cared about that distinction, he couldn’t say.

“I don’t go wearing it out bar hopping.” Zack gave him a hard glare, one that usually convinced others to fall in line, but it didn’t seem to faze Pike.

“So tell me about SQT. Was it as hard as BUD/S?” Pike’s devilish smile said that he’d be happy to venture into more…inappropriate topics if Zack didn’t take this bait.

“Nah. I was so damn glad they didn’t roll me all the way back to Hell Week that SQT was almost a relief.” Zack had broken his leg during the jump training portion of SEAL training that followed BUD/S, and he’d been hella nervous until the review board said he only had to repeat the jump training before joining the next SEAL class at SQT. He’d heard about guys rolled all the way to the start of BUD/S when they got a med drop.

“And now you’ve got your platoon assignment, right? All new guys? When do you get deployed, you think?”

Zack laughed at the stacked questions. Pike played too many warfare games. “Yeah. I’m here for the weekend because I got some leave after finishing SQT, but I’ll be based out of Coronado with my new team. And no, not all new guys. Couple of guys from BUD/S and SQT got assigned to the same platoon.” He kept his voice as casual as he could, trying not to reveal how fucked-up it was that he’d been assigned to the same platoon as Cobb, the guy who’d made his life hell in BUD/S. And to make matters worse, they were only a few rooms apart in the fucking barracks.

“So you guys will be doing real missions soon?” Pike pressed. And fuck, wouldn’t Cobb have a field day with Zack being in this place with Pike? Christ, just the thought had him taking a deep pull from his beer.

Zack groaned. “I wish. We’re looking at another twelve to eighteen months of training before we get into the field.” All the training was intense, but he couldn’t wait to get out there for real—it was what he’d signed up to do, why he’d done the navy SEAL challenge when enlisting, what he’d dreamed about for years.

“Excuse me.” A pretty blonde woman, shorter than Pike, even in teetering heels, rested an arm on their table.

“Yeah?” Zack said warily.

“My friends and I have a bet.” She pointed over her shoulder at a group of young women crowded around one of the tables.

“Oh?” Pike was way more enthusiastic than Zack would have been, giving the woman a friendly grin.

“Zack’s the one who plays for your team,” Pike said all casually, jerking his thumb in Zack’s direction, but there was a challenge in his eyes.

“Fabulous.” She looked Zack over in a way that made his stomach cramp. Unlike when Pike scoped you out. He knew her gaze was supposed to make his blood hum, make him start thinking sexy things, but instead it kind of creeped him out.

“Hey—” Zack started to protest, but the woman was already grabbing his wrist.

You’re the one who’s always on about how straight you are,Pike’s eyes said as he didn’t move at all to rescue Zack, instead saying, “Go on now. I’ll keep the table and order some fries for when you get back.”

Nothing to do other than drain his beer in one swallow and follow the woman to the dance floor at the far end of the establishment, separated from the rest of the bar by a low wall.

She was cute in a little silver tank top and smelled liked the wisteria in his mom’s front yard, and Zack supposed he should be thinking how good her chest looked in the tight top or how much he wanted that scent all over him, but…yeah, not happening. Still, though, he’d been down this road enough times to know the drill, and he liked dancing, liked letting music move through him, even if the partner stuff did get tricky. The dance mix pumped out a fast beat, enabling him to keep space between them. And she was good, not stomping his feet or draping herself all over him. One dance and he’d politely send her back to her friends.

Near them, a couple—a guy-guy couple to be exact—danced super close. Fuck. One of them wore some sort of spicy aftershave and had a low chuckle for his partner that went right to Zack’s gut. The two shared a private look and a kiss so dirty that Zack couldn’t look away. He’d seen Ryan cuddle up to his boyfriend a couple of times, but that sort of playfulness was a far cry from this…fireworks show inches from him.

“Hey.” The woman tugged on his arm. “Your friend was wrong, wasn’t he?”

“What?” Zack forced his eyes back to her. “Just…not used to…never mind.”

“It’s okay.” She gave him a knowing smile. “Thanks for the dance.” And she headed back to her friends with a little flip of her hair. Fuck. Zack had been figuring he’d buy her a drink, get her off the scent of whatever trail she thought she was on, but she’d dismissed him, clear as day.

“Strike out?” Pike asked when Zack made his way back to the table.

“She had to get back to her friends.” Zack tried to sound regretful but doubted he was all that convincing.

“Fry?” Pike passed him a basket of sweet potato fries with some sort of mayo-based dipping sauce that was far spicier than it looked.

“Whoa.” Zack fanned his mouth, then noticed his beer had already been refilled. He took a swig. “Thanks, man.”

“Not into spicy?” Pike managed to make the question sound rather suggestive.

Zack could survive hours of surf torture, but he couldn’t control his blush. “Nah.”

“That’s okay.” Pike swiped a ketchup out of the condiment display on the back edge of their table, passed it to him. “Simple’s good too.”

Zack honestly wasn’t sure whether they were talking about fries anymore, but he nodded. “So…crap week?” he asked partly to avoid a long awkward silence and partly because he figured even Pike couldn’t flirt while bitching.

“Oh man, you have no idea. Defended my dissertation back in the winter. I thought I had a job all lined up with War Elf—”

“That huge role-playing game?”

“Yeah. I did my dissertation on a statistical analysis model of their users’ usage habits over time.”

“Impressive.” Zack blinked. He had a degree himself, but his BA in history didn’t include the wherewithal to decipher all the lingo needed for a math PhD.

“Yeah, anyway, I was told they might have a place for me, but they don’t, so now I’m stuck tossing my hat in the teaching ring. And it sucks.”

“You don’t want to teach?”

“Do I look like professor material?” Pike gestured at himself. Zack let himself do the one thing he tried to avoid and really looked at Pike—faded T-shirt advertising the game Ryan’s boyfriend worked for, ripped jeans. Surprisingly full pink lips. Twinkling green eyes—wait. Clothes. He was supposed to be noticing clothes.

“Not exactly,” Zack mumbled into his napkin.

“I had to wear a suit three times this week,” Pike moaned.

“Dude, until you have to wear the same soggy BDUs for five days running, you don’t get to complain.”

“Okay, okay, you win. I’m just saying that this whole adulting thing bites.”

Zack had seen enough suckage in his life to decide that “adulting” was practically a vacation, but he nodded because a “suck it up, buttercup” wasn’t going to go over well with Pike’s pity party.

“You know what we should do?” Pike brightened, getting a gleam in his eye that frightened Zack more than a live grenade. “Shots. We need to do shots.”

Across the room, the woman from earlier was talking to her friends and as if on cue, the whole table tittered and three blond heads swiveled in his direction before returning to the giggle fest. Fuck.

He knew he’d regret this, probably within the hour, but at that moment he couldn’t stop his head from nodding. “Bring it on.”

2. Murder and Mayhem (Murder and Mayhem #1)

Genre : M/M Romance, Mystery, Contemporary

Type : Duology

Status : Completed Series

BLURB :

Dead women tell no tales.

Former cat burglar Rook Stevens stole many a priceless thing in the past, but he’s never been accused of taking a life—until now. It was one thing to find a former associate inside Potter’s Field, his pop culture memorabilia shop, but quite another to stumble across her dead body.

Detective Dante Montoya thought he’d never see Rook Stevens again—not after his former partner’d falsified evidence to entrap the jewelry thief and Stevens walked off scot-free. So when he tackled a fleeing murder suspect, Dante was shocked to discover the blood-covered man was none other than the thief he’d fought to put in prison and who still made his blood sing.

Rook is determined to shake loose the murder charge against him, even if it means putting distance between him and the rugged Cuban-Mexican detective who brought him down. If one dead con artist wasn’t bad enough, others soon follow, and as the bodies pile up around Rook’s feet, he’s forced to reach out to the last man he’d expect to believe in his innocence—and the only man who’s ever gotten under Rook’s skin.

”Excerpt”

The large case he’d set up as a wall between the front and the back of the store was broken as well, but from what he could see, the movie props he’d placed there were intact, although he couldn’t say the same for the enormous papier-mâché griffin he’d found at a Harryhausen tribute auction. Peppered with bullet holes, its body and head were marred with crumbling white holes, a scatter pattern large enough to make Rook’s stomach turn.

“Shit, they were trying to kill me.” He leaned back, trying to do a visual count on how many bullets pierced through the window and into the shop while he’d been plastered to the floor to avoid being shot.

“Go in but do not touch.” Rook echoed what his grandfather’s lawyers told him, trying to absorb the destruction. “I can’t even move without touching something. And how the hell am I going to document the damage? What isn’t damaged? Fricking lawyers.”

“Are these the same lawyers that told you to return to the scene of the crime and screw up any residuals that might be here?” Montoya’s deep voice rumbled out of the darkened doorway leading from the storefront to the elevator up to Rook’s apartment. “If they wanted you to be thrown into jail, they could have just left you there instead of this catch-and-release program we’ve got going.”

Montoya looked… good. Again. Too good. Too ruffled, too scruffy hot, with broad shoulders and his burned burned-honey eyes fringed with thick, long lashes. A hint of a dimple threatened to spread when his mouth quirked to the side, and Rook had to swallow around a lump in his throat when Montoya shoved his hands into his jeans pockets, sliding his black leather jacket back with his elbows to expose his gun harness.

Even from a few feet away, the man was a tall, dangerous complication in Rook’s life. One he wanted as badly as he didn’t want him around. Rook wasn’t sure what was worse—being accused of murder or being tailed by a man he’d gladly bend over for but who wanted him in handcuffs instead.

“What are you doing here, Stevens?” Montoya’s rumble tickled Rook’s belly, licking hot flames down his crotch and over his ass. “You shouldn’t even be here. What were you thinking?”

Rook had just the smartass answer to throw back at the detective. A burning slap of a sting mingled with a bit of a flirtation hot enough to make the man blush. It would have been an epic moment. One to balance out the unbearable want Montoya seemed to rake up inside of him and caustic enough to push the man’s buttons while pushing him away.

The large case he’d set up as a wall between the front and the back of the store was broken as well, but from what he could see, the movie props he’d placed there were intact, although he couldn’t say the same for the enormous papier-mâché griffin he’d found at a Harryhausen tribute auction. Peppered with bullet holes, its body and head were marred with crumbling white holes, a scatter pattern large enough to make Rook’s stomach turn.

“Shit, they were trying to kill me.” He leaned back, trying to do a visual count on how many bullets pierced through the window and into the shop while he’d been plastered to the floor to avoid being shot.

“Go in but do not touch.” Rook echoed what his grandfather’s lawyers told him, trying to absorb the destruction. “I can’t even move without touching something. And how the hell am I going to document the damage? What isn’t damaged? Fricking lawyers.”

“Are these the same lawyers that told you to return to the scene of the crime and screw up any residuals that might be here?” Montoya’s deep voice rumbled out of the darkened doorway leading from the storefront to the elevator up to Rook’s apartment. “If they wanted you to be thrown into jail, they could have just left you there instead of this catch-and-release program we’ve got going.”

Montoya looked… good. Again. Too good. Too ruffled, too scruffy hot, with broad shoulders and his burned burned-honey eyes fringed with thick, long lashes. A hint of a dimple threatened to spread when his mouth quirked to the side, and Rook had to swallow around a lump in his throat when Montoya shoved his hands into his jeans pockets, sliding his black leather jacket back with his elbows to expose his gun harness.

Even from a few feet away, the man was a tall, dangerous complication in Rook’s life. One he wanted as badly as he didn’t want him around. Rook wasn’t sure what was worse—being accused of murder or being tailed by a man he’d gladly bend over for but who wanted him in handcuffs instead.

“What are you doing here, Stevens?” Montoya’s rumble tickled Rook’s belly, licking hot flames down his crotch and over his ass. “You shouldn’t even be here. What were you thinking?”

Rook had just the smartass answer to throw back at the detective. A burning slap of a sting mingled with a bit of a flirtation hot enough to make the man blush. It would have been an epic moment. One to balance out the unbearable want Montoya seemed to rake up inside of him and caustic enough to push the man’s buttons while pushing him away.

3. Laurent and the Beast (Kings of Hell MC#1)

BLURB :

1805. Laurent: Indentured servant. Desperate to escape a life that is falling apart. 2017. Beast: Kings of Hell Motorcycle Club vice president. His fists do the talking.

Beast has been disfigured in a fire, but he’s covered his skin with tattoos to make sure no one mistakes his scars for weakness. The accident not only hurt his body, but damaged his soul and self-esteem, so he’s wrapped himself in a tight cocoon of violence and mayhem where no one can reach him.

Until one night, when he finds a young man covered in blood in their clubhouse.

Sweet, innocent, and as beautiful as an angel fallen from heaven, Laurent pulls on all of Beast’s heartstrings. Laurent is so lost in the world around him, and is such a tangled mystery, that Beast can’t help but let the man claw his way into the stone that is Beast’s heart.

In 1805, Laurent has no family, no means, and his eyesight is failing. To escape a life of poverty, he uses his beauty, but that only backfires and leads him to a catastrophe that changes his life forever. He takes one step into the abyss and is transported to the future, ready to fight for a life worth living.

What he doesn’t expect in his way is a brutal, gruff wall of tattooed muscle with a tender side that only Laurent is allowed to touch. And yet, if Laurent ever wants to earn his freedom, he might have to tear out the heart of the very man who took care of him when it mattered most.

”Excerpt”

Brecon, Maine, April 2017

From the corner of his eye, Beast watched his father share biting kisses with his girlfriend, Martina, and then lean forward to kiss the man who was taking her from behind. The beer had a bitter aftertaste, but Beast had more nevertheless, tapping his teeth against the glass bottle so hard he feared it would break from the force of his jaw clenching.

Heavy beats exploded within the old walls of the former asylum, drumming under the high ceiling. The splash of violet and green illumination licked the shapes hidden beyond its reach, making even the most mundane of things appear phantastical. In the corner of the large room, hiding in the violet glow, the three lovers moved as one, transformed by shadow and smoke into one monstrous body that pulsed at break-neck speed, twisting and shuddering, as if it were about to leave the shadows and attack Beast with all its ferociousness.

It was moving quicker now, caught up in a rhythm that would have to end soon. Two pairs of thick limbs wrapped around the quivering flesh of the woman in the middle, furiously thrusting to completion before disintegrating into separate bodies.

Beast stayed on the sidelines with his arms crossed on his chest, quietly watching over the buffet of flesh that he could sample if only he wished to. And the truth was that he’d love to join the shameless club party the way he used to. He’d go for Spike first. The handsome hangaround had a thing for bikers and never missed an opportunity for the dick of a patch, always there to open his legs at parties, the elegant suit he wore to work forgotten in his Portland home.

If Beast could have his way, he’d stuff his cock into that wide-open mouth and watch a dark flush spread down Spike’s face and spill over his chest. And the worst thing was that were he to say this out loud, Spike would already be kneeling in front of him, ready for the taking. Beast was positive the guy had already crossed all the other members of Kings of Hell MC off his bucket list, and there was no end to the suggestive glances thrown Beast’s way. But Beast would not be a freakshow, or a pity fuck, or yet another patch in Spike’s collection of sexual partners.

He would not be someone’s shortcut into prospecting either.

Beast doubted any of the hangarounds would ever want him anywhere near them unless out of morbid curiosity or to gain favors. And Beast was not about to be someone’s sugar daddy, all the while wondering if they were even attracted to him. No. This was better. Watching would do.

While he was looking away, King, Beast’s father, Martina, and the male hangaround all finished. She slid off the third wheel’s lap and stumbled into King’s arms, sharing yet another kiss with him. She pulled down her skirt and walked back into the light with her hand resting against the wall for support, looking dizzy, though whether it was from the double-teaming or having too much liquor—Beast didn’t know. She waved at him and stumbled right after, thankfully grabbing the nearest chair for support instead of rolling onto the collection of bottles and glasses on the dirty coffee table.

A heavy hand landed on Beast’s skin so abruptly he barely kept himself from wincing as the mangled nerves of his scarred shoulder cried out in alarm. He knew who it was before his father even spoke.

King’s fly was still open, which made Beast immediately look up into the handsome face that always reminded him of his own long-lost good looks. He used to be a mirror image of his father. Too bad good genes stood no chance against fire. Looking into King’s masculine, ageless features was a daily reminder of what could have been if Beast hadn’t been disfigured in an accident twelve years ago.

His old man on the other hand could easily be one of those hot fifty-somethings Hollywood seemed so fond of. His hair and beard still a golden shade of blond, lips pink and plump as a young man’s, and his body buzzed with vitality despite all the violence, alcohol, and sleepless nights it’d been subjected to all of King’s life.

“Got laid yet?” King asked, presenting Beast with two rows of perfectly white teeth. “I am gonna ask you every day until it happens,” he said, digging his fingers into Beast’s aching flesh until he struggled not to flinch from the warning sensations his damaged nerves were sending his brain.

But Beast couldn’t show weakness, not this long after the accident that left his body a minefield of pain—yet another reason why casually fucking someone during a party seemed more alarming than exciting. What if they touched Beast too firmly and made him cry out? What if they started talking about the president’s son being a weakling who squeals in pain when he’s being touched? The club was the only family Beast had. His only reason to be. And he could not put his position here in danger, because King would not hold him up, were he to fall.

“Just relaxing,” Beast said in the end, cooling his neck with the empty bottle.

Beast forced himself to smile, and his gaze trailed over the cluster of sofas and chairs the party spun around. At the beginning of this evening, Beast’s closest friend, Knight, and his girlfriend Jordan had seemed back to normal, but the mood must have deteriorated throughout the last few minutes, because they now sat turning away from one another and alternated hissing over their shoulders.

Sometimes, Beast considered dipping his toe into finding a regular partner—if there was a man interested in him enough—because then he could actually teach a guy how to touch him and not have to do it over and over again every time, like he would have to with every new casual lover. People didn’t want to put effort into a heavily tattooed man with burns and a shady life when there were so many easy lays to be had at the click of a button. And then Beast thought of Knight and Jordan’s relationship and shuddered, immediately losing interest in any kind of romance. Being with someone would only bring him more trouble and annoyance than remaining celibate ever could.

King groaned. “Are you in one of your moods again?”

“My moods?” Beast asked, as if he didn’t know what his father meant. King was the kind of guy who believed not smiling all the time made you sulky. And Beast was just fine. He felt completely normal. Watching couples who actually had a romantic and sexual connection had only hurt him in the first few months after he realized he wasn’t ever going to have that again. He was thick-skinned now, and he had the scars to prove it.

King raised his hands in mock-defeat and laughed. “Okay, okay. At least get yourself another beer.”

Beast squeezed his hand around the bottle, stopping only when he realized that cuts were the last thing he needed in his collection of imperfections.

With the music so loud they all needed to shout in order to hear each other, Beast hadn’t noticed a fight starting on the other side of the vast room, but two men shoving each other eventually caught his attention and pulled him away from King. One was their VP, Davy, the other—Gyro, a newcomer who got invited by one of the girls. Barely anyone noticed what was going on yet, with the band playing almost too loudly, but Beast was on it, rushing through the middle of the crowd of people engaged in a mating dance that would soon move to the sofas or to the bedrooms nearby.

“The fuck is this, anyway?” Gyro yelled and pushed at Davy so hard, Davy’s favorite racoon hat fell off. Things were about to get ugly.

Davy’s eyes opened wide in fury. “You don’t come to an orgy and expect to only be covered in pussy. A guy stroked your shoulder! Get over yourself, motherfucker!”

Not this again. Beast wasn’t in charge of vetting new people, but at times like these, he wished he were. That he could handle it all himself if some of his brothers lacked the sense of responsibility required for the job and allowed some homophobic trash in the clubhouse. At least this fight would give him something to do instead of sulking that he hadn’t gotten any action for so long.

The music stopped. First the guitar and base, with the drums going strong in the silence for another two seconds before the guy realized things were heating up beyond the stage. Gyro’s voice was loud and clear in the void left behind by the lack of heavy metal.

“You call yourself a biker club? You’re all a bunch of dick-loving pussies,” he growled and tossed a bottle at the wall, his intoxicated body swaying to regain balance following the rapid movement. The bottle broke into a million pieces, but the sound of shattered glass drowned in the onslaught of shouting and noise as the bikers turned their attention to the insults thrown at them.

Joker pushed a girl off his lap and stood up, jumping over the backseat of the leather sofa, nimble like an acrobat in his bright green shirt that surely hid a collection of weapons that could be used on the offender who’d come here to break club rules.

“We’re outlaws. We do what the fuck we want! You have a problem with me fucking a guy when I feel like it? Maybe my dick should go into your ass then and show you what it’s like, huh? Wanna be converted?” Joker hissed, pushing back his bright, spiky hair that had gotten slightly tousled throughout the party.

Gyro’s eyes went wide, and before Beast could get to him, the fucker pulled out a gun. A small thing, one of those women were encouraged to carry in their handbags, but no matter how small the firearm, it could do a lot of damage. “You better stay the fuck away!”

The atmosphere got dense as cooling tar. Hangarounds scattered, shrieking in fear as they hid behind furniture or fled the room, some without their clothes on. The sheer sense of panic was sour in the air, and Beast’s gums itched for violence.

He ducked and moved behind the sofas, intent on approaching the fucker from the back. The cigarette butts and dirt littering the floor were disgusting against his fingertips, but he progressed toward the enemy as quickly and silently as possible, his head pulsing harder. The longer he took to disarm the fucker, the more dangerous the situation would get. Beast couldn’t have that. Not in his home.

“Come on now, don’t be an idiot,” said Rev, their sergeant-at-arms in a calm, steady voice. His reliable personality was one of the reasons why he played the club lawman, and maybe he would provide enough distraction for Beast to attack the piece of trash from the back.

“Me? You guys are fucking laughable. You don’t even carry your firearms on you?” Gyro hissed with a slur to his voice, and Beast clenched his teeth. At this point during a party, all the club members were too drunk to take out an armed enemy without it being a risk to everyone else, but if Rev kept up the negotiations, the situation could still be diffused. No one needed a dead civilian buried on club grounds, just because he’d had too much speed and considered himself untouchable.

Knight must have noticed what Beast was doing, because after their eyes met for a split second, Knight casually pushed back his long hair and stepped closer to Gyro. Inevitably, Gyro turned the gun at him, but at least it drew attention away from Beast.

“How many bullets do you have in that tiny gun of yours, asshole? How many people can you shoot before someone bashes your brains in?” Knight asked in a low voice.

Not exactly the approach Beast would take when talking to an armed man who was either drunk or on drugs, but it would do as distraction. The moment the fucker opened his mouth, all his attention on Knight, Beast leapt at his legs and cut him down like a tree.

Gyro let out a high-pitched yelp, but as soon as he hit the floor, the gun went off, followed by a rumble.

Beast twisted Gyro’s hand to make him let go of the firearm, then delivered a powerful punch by slamming his elbow into the twisted face. Plaster-smelling dust unexpectedly blew into his face, and the room exploded with loud cries. Beast’s head shot up, and in the pale, powdery cloud he saw a man struggling against a large block lying among scattered pieces of rubble. The subdued light was barely enough to illuminate the ceiling, but with his heart beating furiously Beast noticed a large dent in the sculpted decoration above—the source of the debris that rained to the floor in chunks rather than tiny pieces.

Lizzy, the band’s frontman, jumped off the stage, screaming for someone to call an ambulance for his father, but barely anyone listened in the commotion. More people were fleeing the room now that they weren’t at risk of taking a bullet, and Beast was left calculating if they should all evacuate.

Gyro squirmed under him, trying to free himself out of Beast’s grip. “I’m sorry!” he screamed, now sounding not only regretful but frightened for his life. Too late for that.

Rev, was by Davy’s side, lifting the pieces of wood and brick off alongside Lizzy, Knight, and Joker. “I told you this place isn’t safe! We either actually invest and renovate, or we have to move!” he growled, tossing a large chunk of debris so hard it hit the nearest wall and fell with a dull thud.

Only seconds later Beast realized it was King Rev was arguing with. “It’s only stops being safe when someone shoots at the ceiling, for fuck’s sake!”

“And what, a chunk of the ceiling would fall off in a normal building? Get a cold shower,” hissed Rev, straining his muscles as he and Knight lifted the large piece off Davy, who screamed out as if someone was pulling his nails one by one. Lizzy, who tried to help his father get out from under the heavy slab of brick, was so pale Beast feared he’d faint at any moment.

Pushing Gyro firmer against the ground to keep him still, Beast looked at them, still confused by the choking dust and chaos around him. “What happened?”

King looked to him with a scowl. “The bullet dislodged something in the ceiling—”

Rev butted in with a snarl, spreading his thick arms away from the naked, tattooed chest. “The ceiling is falling apart. Look at this, Davy’s leg is fucked!”

And to make matters worse, only now Beast realized a loud, ferocious barking was resonating from the corridor where Hound, his dog, had been locked away for the night.

“I’ll just be on my way! I didn’t mean to shoot! I forgot I even had it on me,” Gyro kept squealing like a piglet that knew its time for slaughter had come.

Martina was already speaking to the emergency services on the phone, but due to the drunken slur in her voice she had to repeat herself and got more frustrated by the second. Davy’s face, twisted in pain, and red behind the white beard, dominated Beast’s thoughts. Davy was like an uncle to him. It was him who’d taught Beast survival skills and the enjoyment of camping out in nature. And now he was down because of an idiot who did not respect the rules of his hosts.

Beast grabbed the fallen gun and pulled up Gyro with a single upward tug. The fucker’s confidence melted away, replaced by a fear so intense he was shuddering and barely able to stand upright. To think that someone this pathetic was the source of Davy’s pain was an insult on its own. Beast’s eyes met King’s. Wordless understanding passed between them, and King nodded, giving Beast permission to deal with Gyro as he saw fit.

“Prospect,” yelled Beast, already forcing Gyro away from the circle of people formed around the wounded club member. “Who’s the pussy now?” Beast hissed into the man’s ear when he noticed tears streaming down the guy’s face.

Jake, their prospect, was already on Beast’s toes, following him like Hound did on their walks.

“What do you need me to do?” Jake asked, his blue eyes wide, the young, still boyish face flushed. He used to play football in high school, and he now looked as excited as if he scored a touchdown.

“Come with me,” Beast said and pulled back Gyro’s arms, forcing the bastard to walk in a bent-over position. His heart was breaking for Davy. Beast of all people knew the value of good health, and he hated thinking of all the things their VP would have to go through when he was so close to retiring.

Jake ran ahead and opened the double doors leading to private quarters where only club members were allowed. The light went on, blinking in yet another testament to the building’s deteriorating state. It was likely the dampness that caused constant problems with electricity, but the falling ceiling was the last straw. Gyro was guilty of pulling out a gun in their clubhouse, on a senior club member at that, but consequences wouldn’t have been so dire if this building wasn’t slowly turning into a death trap. Beast had been suggesting a change for a while now, but after tonight, everyone would finally see how urgently they needed to either renovate the old building or move.

As they approached the room where Hound had been locked for the time of the party, the barking grew louder, drilling into the anxiety centers in Beast’s brain. It was likely Hound sensed the chaos and was frightened of all the noise, but he still needed to check up on his dog.

“Prospect, the cellar,” he said, easily subduing their prisoner, who didn’t even attempt to twist away, shuddering like a frightened rabbit. It was too late for apologies or mercy.

Jake gave the man a long look full of pity. He needed to get over that if he wanted to become a patched member one day. The way to the cellar was a maze through disused rooms where rubble and old furniture lay covered in dust. Jake had to pull away a medical cabinet on wheels to access the hidden door.

“Please, I don’t swing that way. I mean— no offense! I was too drunk!”

Looked like he was sober now. Good.

Beast pushed the fucker forward, sending him into a tumble down the old stairs. The sound of the body hitting steps and finally the floor farther down did nothing to relieve Beast’s anger. Nothing could make this better. “You were a guest here. We can’t tolerate this. You don’t get to hurt our VP and walk away,” he said, switching on the single light bulb, which illuminated the small empty space that smelled of mold and rat droppings. He was down in the cellar within three long steps.

Gyro gave Beast a nervous smile as he tried to pick himself up from the floor, only for Beast’s boot to help him down. “I— I could swing that way if it… helps,” he finished in a trembly whisper.

Beast sneered, mildly disgusted. “No,” he said and grabbed Gyro’s collar, pulling him all the way up. A quick punch sent Gyro stumbling to the floor with a shocked yelp, but Beast was not done. Over and over, he made the fucker stand, and no matter how Gyro crawled away or flinched, Beast’s fists did their duty, slowly turning Gyro’s face into bloodied tenderized meat. Jake watched on, completely silent as Beast kneeled next to Gyro, who stayed down after the last punch, seemingly unable to pick himself up anymore.

Blood ran fast through Beast’s veins, and even looking straight into the eyes visible through swollen slits he felt no remorse. Gyro should be happy he would be leaving the clubhouse alive. But that did not mean he could leave Davy a cripple and walk out of this with just flesh wounds. Before Gyro could react, Beast pulled on his right hand, the same that sent the bullet into the ceiling, and rested his forearm against the edge of a cement block that had been here since forever. Beast pushed down using the block as leverage, and the bone broke with a sickening creak. Gyro gave a frantic scream, only to still, passed out on the bare floor.

The moment silence enveloped the room, Hound’s barking seemed to reach even here. Beast took a deep breath and finally looked back at Jake who stood straight, like a soldier awaiting orders.

“Take care of this. Drive him to town and leave him close to the hospital. Make sure you’re not on camera. And then find out for me who vetted this fuck.”

There was some kind of ‘yes, sir’ from the prospect, but Beast didn’t wait to acknowledge it and climbed the stairs.

Hound’s alarmed growling was coming his way, along with whines, when he reached the right door and opened it, only to have the massive Rottweiler’s body rush past him and into the corridor. Beast expected his pet to rush toward the room where the accident happened just minutes ago but Hound looked back at Beast, as if signalling he wanted to be followed, and rushed the other way, stirring the worst of feelings in Beast.

Was there an intruder somewhere in the house? With the sheer size of the former asylum that has served as the Kings of Hell Clubhouse for the last fifteen years, it was easy to overlook things happening in the disused parts of the property. They once had a bunch of teenagers who came over wanting to spy on the orgy. That thankfully didn’t end in blood, and out of the whole mess they got Jake to join their ranks.

Beast wondered whether he shouldn’t go back to the armory and get himself a gun but ultimately decided against it. There would be police and emergency services coming for Davy, and he didn’t want to run around with a firearm, no matter how good their relationship with the local police was.

Hound moved as if he were following a clear trail, but Beast couldn’t smell anything apart from dust and dampness. They were leaving behind the shouting and even the sound of the ambulance approaching, and eventually entered a corridor so disused it had a thick layer of dust on the floor. Now even Beast could see faint footprints in the dust, and next to them, dark droplets that could be blood.

Hound smelled the traces, looked back and broke into a run, which had Beast following him with the worst of expectations as to what he would eventually find. His heart beat faster as they ran down the dark hallway.

The building was a labyrinth, and this far away from where they all lived and worked, it wasn’t even wired anymore, so he breathed in the smell of mildew and followed Hound through the darkness in hope he would not stumble.

Windows in the doorless rooms on both sides of the corridor were the only source of light, now delivering a faint red and blue glow of the approaching ambulance. For all Beast knew, this could have been a gothic castle, something out of Bram Stoker’s Dracula, with bloodthirsty monsters waiting for their next victim in one of the endless hallways, and yet he only ran faster, listening to the steady tap of Hound’s paws.

Without any hesitation whatsoever, Hound rushed inside one of the rooms and gave a growl so vicious something inside Beast mourned his decision not to take a gun with him. But no one shot at him when Hound let out a single bark. Beast pushed past the empty doorway, jumping over a fallen chair, only to see someone hiding in the shadows.

Judging by the long, wavy hair and small stature, Beast at first thought it was a woman, but then the person spoke with a distinctly male voice.

“I… I’m not certain where I am.” The stranger took half a step out of the shadow, and into the flashing light coming from outside. His accent was distinctly foreign. French maybe?

Beast took him in with a scowl. Blood covered the stranger’s face, hair, dripped from his chin, from the tips of his trembling fingers, and stained the outfit that looked as if he’d stolen it from the set of a costume drama. Knee-high boots, fitted pants, a vest worn under a tailcoat.

“What the fuck are you doing on our property, boy?” hissed Beast, watching the soft features of a very young man. “Whose blood is this?” he asked, still cautious. In his experience, a non-threatening presence could hide an adept fighter, so he was not taking any chances as he joined Hound in front of the stranger, who was so short in comparison to Beast’s own six foot five form that his red-stained head only reached Beast’s pecs.

The stranger backed away into the corner, whimpering in fear the moment Hound growled at him again and lowered his head, but Beast wasn’t having any of it and grabbed the boy’s arm. “Is the blood yours then? Someone attacked you? Where?” he asked, not hesitating to pat the intruder down, to make sure there were no weapons hiding under the fancy coat.

The boy tried to weasel out of his grip, but he didn’t seem adept at using force. “N-no. I don’t think it’s mine. I don’t know. Is this hell?”

Beast groaned, staring at the silly-looking young man, whose white shirt was completely drenched in red. Someone must have died to produce this much blood.

“You will explain yourself to King.”

Brecon, Maine, April 2017

From the corner of his eye, Beast watched his father share biting kisses with his girlfriend, Martina, and then lean forward to kiss the man who was taking her from behind. The beer had a bitter aftertaste, but Beast had more nevertheless, tapping his teeth against the glass bottle so hard he feared it would break from the force of his jaw clenching.

Heavy beats exploded within the old walls of the former asylum, drumming under the high ceiling. The splash of violet and green illumination licked the shapes hidden beyond its reach, making even the most mundane of things appear phantastical. In the corner of the large room, hiding in the violet glow, the three lovers moved as one, transformed by shadow and smoke into one monstrous body that pulsed at break-neck speed, twisting and shuddering, as if it were about to leave the shadows and attack Beast with all its ferociousness.

It was moving quicker now, caught up in a rhythm that would have to end soon. Two pairs of thick limbs wrapped around the quivering flesh of the woman in the middle, furiously thrusting to completion before disintegrating into separate bodies.

Beast stayed on the sidelines with his arms crossed on his chest, quietly watching over the buffet of flesh that he could sample if only he wished to. And the truth was that he’d love to join the shameless club party the way he used to. He’d go for Spike first. The handsome hangaround had a thing for bikers and never missed an opportunity for the dick of a patch, always there to open his legs at parties, the elegant suit he wore to work forgotten in his Portland home.

If Beast could have his way, he’d stuff his cock into that wide-open mouth and watch a dark flush spread down Spike’s face and spill over his chest. And the worst thing was that were he to say this out loud, Spike would already be kneeling in front of him, ready for the taking. Beast was positive the guy had already crossed all the other members of Kings of Hell MC off his bucket list, and there was no end to the suggestive glances thrown Beast’s way. But Beast would not be a freakshow, or a pity fuck, or yet another patch in Spike’s collection of sexual partners.

He would not be someone’s shortcut into prospecting either.

Beast doubted any of the hangarounds would ever want him anywhere near them unless out of morbid curiosity or to gain favors. And Beast was not about to be someone’s sugar daddy, all the while wondering if they were even attracted to him. No. This was better. Watching would do.

While he was looking away, King, Beast’s father, Martina, and the male hangaround all finished. She slid off the third wheel’s lap and stumbled into King’s arms, sharing yet another kiss with him. She pulled down her skirt and walked back into the light with her hand resting against the wall for support, looking dizzy, though whether it was from the double-teaming or having too much liquor—Beast didn’t know. She waved at him and stumbled right after, thankfully grabbing the nearest chair for support instead of rolling onto the collection of bottles and glasses on the dirty coffee table.

A heavy hand landed on Beast’s skin so abruptly he barely kept himself from wincing as the mangled nerves of his scarred shoulder cried out in alarm. He knew who it was before his father even spoke.

King’s fly was still open, which made Beast immediately look up into the handsome face that always reminded him of his own long-lost good looks. He used to be a mirror image of his father. Too bad good genes stood no chance against fire. Looking into King’s masculine, ageless features was a daily reminder of what could have been if Beast hadn’t been disfigured in an accident twelve years ago.

His old man on the other hand could easily be one of those hot fifty-somethings Hollywood seemed so fond of. His hair and beard still a golden shade of blond, lips pink and plump as a young man’s, and his body buzzed with vitality despite all the violence, alcohol, and sleepless nights it’d been subjected to all of King’s life.

“Got laid yet?” King asked, presenting Beast with two rows of perfectly white teeth. “I am gonna ask you every day until it happens,” he said, digging his fingers into Beast’s aching flesh until he struggled not to flinch from the warning sensations his damaged nerves were sending his brain.

But Beast couldn’t show weakness, not this long after the accident that left his body a minefield of pain—yet another reason why casually fucking someone during a party seemed more alarming than exciting. What if they touched Beast too firmly and made him cry out? What if they started talking about the president’s son being a weakling who squeals in pain when he’s being touched? The club was the only family Beast had. His only reason to be. And he could not put his position here in danger, because King would not hold him up, were he to fall.

“Just relaxing,” Beast said in the end, cooling his neck with the empty bottle.

Beast forced himself to smile, and his gaze trailed over the cluster of sofas and chairs the party spun around. At the beginning of this evening, Beast’s closest friend, Knight, and his girlfriend Jordan had seemed back to normal, but the mood must have deteriorated throughout the last few minutes, because they now sat turning away from one another and alternated hissing over their shoulders.

Sometimes, Beast considered dipping his toe into finding a regular partner—if there was a man interested in him enough—because then he could actually teach a guy how to touch him and not have to do it over and over again every time, like he would have to with every new casual lover. People didn’t want to put effort into a heavily tattooed man with burns and a shady life when there were so many easy lays to be had at the click of a button. And then Beast thought of Knight and Jordan’s relationship and shuddered, immediately losing interest in any kind of romance. Being with someone would only bring him more trouble and annoyance than remaining celibate ever could.

King groaned. “Are you in one of your moods again?”

“My moods?” Beast asked, as if he didn’t know what his father meant. King was the kind of guy who believed not smiling all the time made you sulky. And Beast was just fine. He felt completely normal. Watching couples who actually had a romantic and sexual connection had only hurt him in the first few months after he realized he wasn’t ever going to have that again. He was thick-skinned now, and he had the scars to prove it.

King raised his hands in mock-defeat and laughed. “Okay, okay. At least get yourself another beer.”

Beast squeezed his hand around the bottle, stopping only when he realized that cuts were the last thing he needed in his collection of imperfections.

With the music so loud they all needed to shout in order to hear each other, Beast hadn’t noticed a fight starting on the other side of the vast room, but two men shoving each other eventually caught his attention and pulled him away from King. One was their VP, Davy, the other—Gyro, a newcomer who got invited by one of the girls. Barely anyone noticed what was going on yet, with the band playing almost too loudly, but Beast was on it, rushing through the middle of the crowd of people engaged in a mating dance that would soon move to the sofas or to the bedrooms nearby.

“The fuck is this, anyway?” Gyro yelled and pushed at Davy so hard, Davy’s favorite racoon hat fell off. Things were about to get ugly.

Davy’s eyes opened wide in fury. “You don’t come to an orgy and expect to only be covered in pussy. A guy stroked your shoulder! Get over yourself, motherfucker!”

Not this again. Beast wasn’t in charge of vetting new people, but at times like these, he wished he were. That he could handle it all himself if some of his brothers lacked the sense of responsibility required for the job and allowed some homophobic trash in the clubhouse. At least this fight would give him something to do instead of sulking that he hadn’t gotten any action for so long.

The music stopped. First the guitar and base, with the drums going strong in the silence for another two seconds before the guy realized things were heating up beyond the stage. Gyro’s voice was loud and clear in the void left behind by the lack of heavy metal.

“You call yourself a biker club? You’re all a bunch of dick-loving pussies,” he growled and tossed a bottle at the wall, his intoxicated body swaying to regain balance following the rapid movement. The bottle broke into a million pieces, but the sound of shattered glass drowned in the onslaught of shouting and noise as the bikers turned their attention to the insults thrown at them.

Joker pushed a girl off his lap and stood up, jumping over the backseat of the leather sofa, nimble like an acrobat in his bright green shirt that surely hid a collection of weapons that could be used on the offender who’d come here to break club rules.

“We’re outlaws. We do what the fuck we want! You have a problem with me fucking a guy when I feel like it? Maybe my dick should go into your ass then and show you what it’s like, huh? Wanna be converted?” Joker hissed, pushing back his bright, spiky hair that had gotten slightly tousled throughout the party.

Gyro’s eyes went wide, and before Beast could get to him, the fucker pulled out a gun. A small thing, one of those women were encouraged to carry in their handbags, but no matter how small the firearm, it could do a lot of damage. “You better stay the fuck away!”

The atmosphere got dense as cooling tar. Hangarounds scattered, shrieking in fear as they hid behind furniture or fled the room, some without their clothes on. The sheer sense of panic was sour in the air, and Beast’s gums itched for violence.

He ducked and moved behind the sofas, intent on approaching the fucker from the back. The cigarette butts and dirt littering the floor were disgusting against his fingertips, but he progressed toward the enemy as quickly and silently as possible, his head pulsing harder. The longer he took to disarm the fucker, the more dangerous the situation would get. Beast couldn’t have that. Not in his home.

“Come on now, don’t be an idiot,” said Rev, their sergeant-at-arms in a calm, steady voice. His reliable personality was one of the reasons why he played the club lawman, and maybe he would provide enough distraction for Beast to attack the piece of trash from the back.

“Me? You guys are fucking laughable. You don’t even carry your firearms on you?” Gyro hissed with a slur to his voice, and Beast clenched his teeth. At this point during a party, all the club members were too drunk to take out an armed enemy without it being a risk to everyone else, but if Rev kept up the negotiations, the situation could still be diffused. No one needed a dead civilian buried on club grounds, just because he’d had too much speed and considered himself untouchable.

Knight must have noticed what Beast was doing, because after their eyes met for a split second, Knight casually pushed back his long hair and stepped closer to Gyro. Inevitably, Gyro turned the gun at him, but at least it drew attention away from Beast.

“How many bullets do you have in that tiny gun of yours, asshole? How many people can you shoot before someone bashes your brains in?” Knight asked in a low voice.

Not exactly the approach Beast would take when talking to an armed man who was either drunk or on drugs, but it would do as distraction. The moment the fucker opened his mouth, all his attention on Knight, Beast leapt at his legs and cut him down like a tree.

Gyro let out a high-pitched yelp, but as soon as he hit the floor, the gun went off, followed by a rumble.

Beast twisted Gyro’s hand to make him let go of the firearm, then delivered a powerful punch by slamming his elbow into the twisted face. Plaster-smelling dust unexpectedly blew into his face, and the room exploded with loud cries. Beast’s head shot up, and in the pale, powdery cloud he saw a man struggling against a large block lying among scattered pieces of rubble. The subdued light was barely enough to illuminate the ceiling, but with his heart beating furiously Beast noticed a large dent in the sculpted decoration above—the source of the debris that rained to the floor in chunks rather than tiny pieces.

Lizzy, the band’s frontman, jumped off the stage, screaming for someone to call an ambulance for his father, but barely anyone listened in the commotion. More people were fleeing the room now that they weren’t at risk of taking a bullet, and Beast was left calculating if they should all evacuate.

Gyro squirmed under him, trying to free himself out of Beast’s grip. “I’m sorry!” he screamed, now sounding not only regretful but frightened for his life. Too late for that.

Rev, was by Davy’s side, lifting the pieces of wood and brick off alongside Lizzy, Knight, and Joker. “I told you this place isn’t safe! We either actually invest and renovate, or we have to move!” he growled, tossing a large chunk of debris so hard it hit the nearest wall and fell with a dull thud.

Only seconds later Beast realized it was King Rev was arguing with. “It’s only stops being safe when someone shoots at the ceiling, for fuck’s sake!”

“And what, a chunk of the ceiling would fall off in a normal building? Get a cold shower,” hissed Rev, straining his muscles as he and Knight lifted the large piece off Davy, who screamed out as if someone was pulling his nails one by one. Lizzy, who tried to help his father get out from under the heavy slab of brick, was so pale Beast feared he’d faint at any moment.

Pushing Gyro firmer against the ground to keep him still, Beast looked at them, still confused by the choking dust and chaos around him. “What happened?”

King looked to him with a scowl. “The bullet dislodged something in the ceiling—”

Rev butted in with a snarl, spreading his thick arms away from the naked, tattooed chest. “The ceiling is falling apart. Look at this, Davy’s leg is fucked!”

And to make matters worse, only now Beast realized a loud, ferocious barking was resonating from the corridor where Hound, his dog, had been locked away for the night.

“I’ll just be on my way! I didn’t mean to shoot! I forgot I even had it on me,” Gyro kept squealing like a piglet that knew its time for slaughter had come.

Martina was already speaking to the emergency services on the phone, but due to the drunken slur in her voice she had to repeat herself and got more frustrated by the second. Davy’s face, twisted in pain, and red behind the white beard, dominated Beast’s thoughts. Davy was like an uncle to him. It was him who’d taught Beast survival skills and the enjoyment of camping out in nature. And now he was down because of an idiot who did not respect the rules of his hosts.

Beast grabbed the fallen gun and pulled up Gyro with a single upward tug. The fucker’s confidence melted away, replaced by a fear so intense he was shuddering and barely able to stand upright. To think that someone this pathetic was the source of Davy’s pain was an insult on its own. Beast’s eyes met King’s. Wordless understanding passed between them, and King nodded, giving Beast permission to deal with Gyro as he saw fit.

“Prospect,” yelled Beast, already forcing Gyro away from the circle of people formed around the wounded club member. “Who’s the pussy now?” Beast hissed into the man’s ear when he noticed tears streaming down the guy’s face.

Jake, their prospect, was already on Beast’s toes, following him like Hound did on their walks.

“What do you need me to do?” Jake asked, his blue eyes wide, the young, still boyish face flushed. He used to play football in high school, and he now looked as excited as if he scored a touchdown.

“Come with me,” Beast said and pulled back Gyro’s arms, forcing the bastard to walk in a bent-over position. His heart was breaking for Davy. Beast of all people knew the value of good health, and he hated thinking of all the things their VP would have to go through when he was so close to retiring.

Jake ran ahead and opened the double doors leading to private quarters where only club members were allowed. The light went on, blinking in yet another testament to the building’s deteriorating state. It was likely the dampness that caused constant problems with electricity, but the falling ceiling was the last straw. Gyro was guilty of pulling out a gun in their clubhouse, on a senior club member at that, but consequences wouldn’t have been so dire if this building wasn’t slowly turning into a death trap. Beast had been suggesting a change for a while now, but after tonight, everyone would finally see how urgently they needed to either renovate the old building or move.

As they approached the room where Hound had been locked for the time of the party, the barking grew louder, drilling into the anxiety centers in Beast’s brain. It was likely Hound sensed the chaos and was frightened of all the noise, but he still needed to check up on his dog.

“Prospect, the cellar,” he said, easily subduing their prisoner, who didn’t even attempt to twist away, shuddering like a frightened rabbit. It was too late for apologies or mercy.

Jake gave the man a long look full of pity. He needed to get over that if he wanted to become a patched member one day. The way to the cellar was a maze through disused rooms where rubble and old furniture lay covered in dust. Jake had to pull away a medical cabinet on wheels to access the hidden door.

“Please, I don’t swing that way. I mean— no offense! I was too drunk!”

Looked like he was sober now. Good.

Beast pushed the fucker forward, sending him into a tumble down the old stairs. The sound of the body hitting steps and finally the floor farther down did nothing to relieve Beast’s anger. Nothing could make this better. “You were a guest here. We can’t tolerate this. You don’t get to hurt our VP and walk away,” he said, switching on the single light bulb, which illuminated the small empty space that smelled of mold and rat droppings. He was down in the cellar within three long steps.

Gyro gave Beast a nervous smile as he tried to pick himself up from the floor, only for Beast’s boot to help him down. “I— I could swing that way if it… helps,” he finished in a trembly whisper.

Beast sneered, mildly disgusted. “No,” he said and grabbed Gyro’s collar, pulling him all the way up. A quick punch sent Gyro stumbling to the floor with a shocked yelp, but Beast was not done. Over and over, he made the fucker stand, and no matter how Gyro crawled away or flinched, Beast’s fists did their duty, slowly turning Gyro’s face into bloodied tenderized meat. Jake watched on, completely silent as Beast kneeled next to Gyro, who stayed down after the last punch, seemingly unable to pick himself up anymore.

Blood ran fast through Beast’s veins, and even looking straight into the eyes visible through swollen slits he felt no remorse. Gyro should be happy he would be leaving the clubhouse alive. But that did not mean he could leave Davy a cripple and walk out of this with just flesh wounds. Before Gyro could react, Beast pulled on his right hand, the same that sent the bullet into the ceiling, and rested his forearm against the edge of a cement block that had been here since forever. Beast pushed down using the block as leverage, and the bone broke with a sickening creak. Gyro gave a frantic scream, only to still, passed out on the bare floor.

The moment silence enveloped the room, Hound’s barking seemed to reach even here. Beast took a deep breath and finally looked back at Jake who stood straight, like a soldier awaiting orders.

“Take care of this. Drive him to town and leave him close to the hospital. Make sure you’re not on camera. And then find out for me who vetted this fuck.”

There was some kind of ‘yes, sir’ from the prospect, but Beast didn’t wait to acknowledge it and climbed the stairs.

Hound’s alarmed growling was coming his way, along with whines, when he reached the right door and opened it, only to have the massive Rottweiler’s body rush past him and into the corridor. Beast expected his pet to rush toward the room where the accident happened just minutes ago but Hound looked back at Beast, as if signalling he wanted to be followed, and rushed the other way, stirring the worst of feelings in Beast.

Was there an intruder somewhere in the house? With the sheer size of the former asylum that has served as the Kings of Hell Clubhouse for the last fifteen years, it was easy to overlook things happening in the disused parts of the property. They once had a bunch of teenagers who came over wanting to spy on the orgy. That thankfully didn’t end in blood, and out of the whole mess they got Jake to join their ranks.

Beast wondered whether he shouldn’t go back to the armory and get himself a gun but ultimately decided against it. There would be police and emergency services coming for Davy, and he didn’t want to run around with a firearm, no matter how good their relationship with the local police was.

Hound moved as if he were following a clear trail, but Beast couldn’t smell anything apart from dust and dampness. They were leaving behind the shouting and even the sound of the ambulance approaching, and eventually entered a corridor so disused it had a thick layer of dust on the floor. Now even Beast could see faint footprints in the dust, and next to them, dark droplets that could be blood.

Hound smelled the traces, looked back and broke into a run, which had Beast following him with the worst of expectations as to what he would eventually find. His heart beat faster as they ran down the dark hallway.

The building was a labyrinth, and this far away from where they all lived and worked, it wasn’t even wired anymore, so he breathed in the smell of mildew and followed Hound through the darkness in hope he would not stumble.

Windows in the doorless rooms on both sides of the corridor were the only source of light, now delivering a faint red and blue glow of the approaching ambulance. For all Beast knew, this could have been a gothic castle, something out of Bram Stoker’s Dracula, with bloodthirsty monsters waiting for their next victim in one of the endless hallways, and yet he only ran faster, listening to the steady tap of Hound’s paws.

Without any hesitation whatsoever, Hound rushed inside one of the rooms and gave a growl so vicious something inside Beast mourned his decision not to take a gun with him. But no one shot at him when Hound let out a single bark. Beast pushed past the empty doorway, jumping over a fallen chair, only to see someone hiding in the shadows.

Judging by the long, wavy hair and small stature, Beast at first thought it was a woman, but then the person spoke with a distinctly male voice.

“I… I’m not certain where I am.” The stranger took half a step out of the shadow, and into the flashing light coming from outside. His accent was distinctly foreign. French maybe?

Beast took him in with a scowl. Blood covered the stranger’s face, hair, dripped from his chin, from the tips of his trembling fingers, and stained the outfit that looked as if he’d stolen it from the set of a costume drama. Knee-high boots, fitted pants, a vest worn under a tailcoat.

“What the fuck are you doing on our property, boy?” hissed Beast, watching the soft features of a very young man. “Whose blood is this?” he asked, still cautious. In his experience, a non-threatening presence could hide an adept fighter, so he was not taking any chances as he joined Hound in front of the stranger, who was so short in comparison to Beast’s own six foot five form that his red-stained head only reached Beast’s pecs.

The stranger backed away into the corner, whimpering in fear the moment Hound growled at him again and lowered his head, but Beast wasn’t having any of it and grabbed the boy’s arm. “Is the blood yours then? Someone attacked you? Where?” he asked, not hesitating to pat the intruder down, to make sure there were no weapons hiding under the fancy coat.

The boy tried to weasel out of his grip, but he didn’t seem adept at using force. “N-no. I don’t think it’s mine. I don’t know. Is this hell?”

Beast groaned, staring at the silly-looking young man, whose white shirt was completely drenched in red. Someone must have died to produce this much blood.

4. Axios : A Spartan Tale

Genre : M/M Romance, Historical

Type : Standalone

Status : Published

BLURB :

I am Axios of Sparta, and I was born to kill. At age seven, I left home to train with other boys where we were taught obedience, solidarity, military strategy, and how to withstand pain. My harsh upbringing stripped me of my weaknesses and forced me to become strong. Ruthless.

But, I craved something greater—a life I could never have.

Against all odds, and the toughest training a warrior could endure, I found an unexpected love in the arms of a fellow Spartan. He was the very air I breathed and the water that sustained me. Fighting side by side with him, we were invincible. Where he went, I followed.

However, there was no place for love in Sparta. Feelings were for the weak. The only life for a Spartan was one of battle and brutality with no guarantee of tomorrow. In times of war, all men were put to the test, but the greatest challenge for us was not one of swords and spears, but of the heart.

All the boys were being put through the agoge, the training to prepare us for the Spartan army, and my small body had yet to grow accustomed to the hardships that such preparation entailed.

My vision blurred, and I placed my hand upon the earth, about to push myself up, when I was hit in the back with a large object, sending me crashing back down into the confines of the dirt.

Everything hurt. As I lay on the ground, I thought it would be easier to give in to the darkness trying to take over. To sleep at last. Three years had come to pass since I’d begun my training, and I was tired of fighting.

“You are a disgrace!” The object crashed down on my back once more. “Do you surrender?”

Surrendering was the epitome of cowardice amongst Spartans.

Opening my eyes, I noticed the other boys watching me.

Some watched with wide, terrified eyes and others with nothing more than slight curiosity. The sufferings we’d faced had desensitized many of us to violence. Pain had become expected.

Then, I saw him.

A boy stood in a group with the others. I’d seen him around before, but we had never spoken. Not many of us spoke to each other. Most of us were still the scared children who’d been yanked from our mother’s arms at the age of seven.

While the crowd stared at me with indifference, he stared with determination.

“Stand,” he mouthed.

With my eyes transfixed on the fair-haired boy, I found strength within myself I was not aware existed—one that pulled me up and to my feet.

Felix nodded and motioned for me to go stand in another group to await further instruction.

I walked that way, almost falling down several times, but I managed to make it. My knees wobbled and my back felt like it was set aflame, but I gritted my teeth and silently stood in place. I moved my gaze amongst the boys—surveying them—and stopped when I saw the boy staring at me again, a subtle smile on his lips.

His golden hair hung to the middle of his ears in soft waves, some of it curtaining across his right eye, and his eyes locked on to mine. Eyes that I knew were green like the grass swaying in the nearby field, even though I couldn’t see them from my distance. I’d beheld his stare before and remembered the unique shade.

“You! Here,” Felix demanded, pointing at the boy.

After breaking eye contact with me, he walked out of the crowd and calmly approached Felix. No fear clouded his face, only a serenity that was uncommon amongst us. He stood in the spot Felix had instructed, and looked up at the man with the same determination he’d expressed to me moments before.

I stared in awe, both curious to see how he fared, but also afraid to witness his likely failure. Those who went up against Felix never came out of it unscathed.

Felix, the large brute of a man, walked circles around the boy. His black hair was tied in a leather strap at the base of his neck, and his bare chest exposed his scarred flesh to the down pouring of heat from the midday sun. A scowl marked his face. After several more circles, he made his move.

But the boy was expecting it. When Felix raised his blunt weapon to hit him in the back, the boy ducked and rolled to the side, getting to his feet directly afterward and facing off with him.

Felix nodded. “Good.”

Then, he lunged again.

The youth slid under the swing, coming out on the other side and kicking Felix in the back of the knee.

Felix didn’t fall, but he stumbled a little, which was the greatest victory any of us had ever gotten against him before. When Felix swung again, the boy wasn’t fast enough, and the weapon collided with the back of his head.

He didn’t stay down for long. Before the object came down on his back, the boy rolled across the dirt and stood, jumping in the air just as Felix tried to trip him.

“I will make a true warrior of you yet,” Felix said and then motioned for the youth to get back in line.

I hadn’t realized I’d been digging my nails into my arm until I felt a sting and looked down to see a faint trace of pink where they had left indentions in my skin.

Once he was back in place, the boy looked over at me. His gaze held mine for several heartbeats, and then he broke contact, not looking back for the rest of training.

The next boy did not fare so well, being knocked to the dirt not even seconds after reaching Felix.

I watched as others were called, but my mind was still on the blond who had moved with such grace, dodging the blows and standing his own against our trainer.

“That is enough for the day,” Felix said, his voice booming across the small arena. “Clean yourselves off and meet in the barracks.”

Just as I turned to leave, Gaius, one of the other instructors, spoke, “Wait!” Once everyone looked his way, he pointed at me and another boy. “You two, come here.”

Gaius was known to be cruel. As hard as Felix worked us, he had always come across to me as someone who had purpose in the punishments and difficult training. But Gaius took great joy in humiliating us.

Felix had walked several paces away and stopped, crossing his strong arms to watch the scene unfold. His jaw was squared, and I suspected he did not fancy whatever Gaius intended.

My heart beat wildly in my chest as I stepped forward, unsure of what awaited me. I walked to the spot he had instructed and stood there, looking at the other boys.

They varied in ages, and each age group was separated into what we called herds. The intriguing blond boy was in the same herd as me, but he’d always kept his distance, preferring solitude…as did the rest of us.

The other youth Gaius had pointed out was about my height and similar build, and he had raven black hair. He approached me in a timid manner with his gaze lowered.

“These youths have shown their cowardice,” Gaius said, stepping between me and the boy and putting his large hands on our shoulders. “What do we do with cowards here in Sparta?”

Boys all started yelling at once. Maim them. Punish. Whip.

It seemed they all grew in confidence once the focus was turned on someone else. A lot of them smiled as they shouted their answer, and another boy picked up a rock and threw it at me.

I ducked just in time.

“Enough!” Gaius stopped their chants and walked forward, pivoting on his heels to stare at me and the boy beside me. “As of this moment, you two are a disgrace. But here is your chance to prove your worth.”

Please, no, I inwardly prayed to whatever god would listen, knowing what Gaius had planned.

Many times, I had witnessed the instructors and some of the older men instigate fights between the trainees. It was a way to tease and humiliate the weak.

He nodded. “Darius and Axios. You are to fight until one of you is unable to continue.” Shifting his stare between me and Darius, he gave a chilling grin. “And if either of you thinks to forfeit, think again. If I see you surrender, I will kill you where you stand.”

My knees shook, and I thought I was going to be ill. Darius looked as if he felt the same. I had never raised a hand to anyone other than Felix for training.

How am I to hit this boy who’s done nothing to me?

Gaius stepped back to give us room and nodded. “Begin.”

At first, nether Darius or I moved. All eyes were on us. Shouts reached my ears as the surrounding trainees egged us on. I observed them as my heart beat wildly. My throat tightened and I felt as if I was going to collapse.

Something crashed into the side of my face and sent me stumbling toward the ground.

I caught myself before I hit and turned to see what had happened. Darius stood before me, all the timidity absent from him, but his eyes still held the uncertainty I felt as well.

He had made the first move.

Now it’s time for me to make mine.

Even though it went against everything I believed in, I lashed out at Darius, hitting him right beneath his left eye. My knuckles cracked with the impact, and by how loud he cried out, I knew I’d hurt him badly.

He snapped his head back to glare at me, a mark already forming on his upper cheek, and he attacked. When he collided with me, we pushed against each other, punching anywhere and everywhere we could.

He jabbed me in my stomach, and I retaliated with a hit to his chest.

My face ached, and I tasted blood on my tongue, but I kept fighting. There was no other choice. Either I fought and won, or I lost. Defeated youths were treated harshly, and I did not wish that upon anyone. But between Darius and me… I chose myself.

I can do this. I will not surrender.

Darius then made a move I had not anticipated. Instead of lunging forward with his attacks like he’d been doing since the beginning of the fight, he rolled under my blow and shoved me from behind.

My footing faltered and I fell to the dirt. Before I could rise up, his arms immediately came around my neck and squeezed, cutting off my air.

I slapped at his forearm, fighting for a breath, and attempted to buck him off. He was much stronger than he had appeared earlier and didn’t budge, crushing me more into the ground. Wild with panic, I struggled against him to no avail.

His knee slammed into my back, and his arms pulled my head backward, putting me at an awkward angle where my limbs refused to function the way I needed them to.

My lungs burned as I continued to thrash around, but my energy was draining quickly. I stared ahead at the other boys and saw many of them smiling.

It was entertainment to them. My life meant nothing, for I was weak. Better to dispose of me now than to have me falter on the battlefield.

One face didn’t smile. The golden-haired boy. He had stepped forward a bit in the line and intensely watched me. His fists were clenched at his sides, and his stance suggested he was debating on whether to approach the fight.

Through my struggles, my arm swung wildly as I tried to hit Darius, but the few instances I did make contact, the hits weren’t powerful enough to do much damage. Then, my hand brushed across something lying in the dirt.

A rock. The same one a boy had thrown at me before the fight started.

Grabbing hold of it, I called forth all the energy I possessed and raised my arm to smash it into the side of Darius’ head. His hold on my neck loosened as he was knocked backward, and I choked out a raspy breath, filling my lungs with the air they’d been denied.

I couldn’t hesitate. Darius will regain his composure soon and attack again.

Although my body screamed with exertion, I flipped around and tackled Darius before he could stand. Blood dripped from the corner of his eye where I’d hit him, and his movements were sluggish as he struggled against me.

Knowing there wasn’t any time for indecision, I straddled his chest and squeezed my knees into his side to hold him down. I slammed my fist into his cheek before hitting him with my other.

Rage blinded me as I repeatedly struck him—anger at my life and what I was forced to become. Angry that something as horrendous as this was not only encouraged but expected. It wasn’t until he stopped struggling under me that I came back to myself and realized what I was doing.

My knuckles were smeared with blood—both my own and his.

Darius stared up at me with swollen, half-shut eyes. His chest slowly rose and fell as a raspy noise left him with each breath he took. I had busted open his lip and nose, and blood streamed from a wound by his ear.

“Finish him,” Gaius commanded from behind me.

No. I cannot.

I looked down at him. Fear clouded his face. He tried to move, but his arms went limp again, and he stilled. Giving up.

Gaius slapped the back of my head. “Show no mercy! He has accepted his defeat now finish him.”

Darius opened his mouth, but no words followed. He reminded me of a fish plucked from the stream. Desperate for life, but unable to flee to safety.

As I stared at him, I felt a tightening in my chest and a twisting in my gut. I knew what I had to do, and the thought alone was almost enough to make me ill.

Everyone watched me. It was not just a fight to see who lost, but also one to see if the victor had it in him to kill. Sparta was no place for the frail or those sensitive to death.

After grabbing the rock that I had dropped before tackling him, I raised my arm and aimed.

Forgive me.

Darius’ eyes widened and he choked out a sob right before I smashed in his skull. I screamed as I hit him, feeling warmth flow between my fingers and splatter on my face with each strike.

His body slumped, and his head lolled to the side as a puddle of blood formed in the dirt. And his eyes watched me.

All the boys were being put through the agoge, the training to prepare us for the Spartan army, and my small body had yet to grow accustomed to the hardships that such preparation entailed.

My vision blurred, and I placed my hand upon the earth, about to push myself up, when I was hit in the back with a large object, sending me crashing back down into the confines of the dirt.

Everything hurt. As I lay on the ground, I thought it would be easier to give in to the darkness trying to take over. To sleep at last. Three years had come to pass since I’d begun my training, and I was tired of fighting.

“You are a disgrace!” The object crashed down on my back once more. “Do you surrender?”

Surrendering was the epitome of cowardice amongst Spartans.

Opening my eyes, I noticed the other boys watching me.

Some watched with wide, terrified eyes and others with nothing more than slight curiosity. The sufferings we’d faced had desensitized many of us to violence. Pain had become expected.

Then, I saw him.

A boy stood in a group with the others. I’d seen him around before, but we had never spoken. Not many of us spoke to each other. Most of us were still the scared children who’d been yanked from our mother’s arms at the age of seven.

While the crowd stared at me with indifference, he stared with determination.

“Stand,” he mouthed.

With my eyes transfixed on the fair-haired boy, I found strength within myself I was not aware existed—one that pulled me up and to my feet.

Felix nodded and motioned for me to go stand in another group to await further instruction.

I walked that way, almost falling down several times, but I managed to make it. My knees wobbled and my back felt like it was set aflame, but I gritted my teeth and silently stood in place. I moved my gaze amongst the boys—surveying them—and stopped when I saw the boy staring at me again, a subtle smile on his lips.

His golden hair hung to the middle of his ears in soft waves, some of it curtaining across his right eye, and his eyes locked on to mine. Eyes that I knew were green like the grass swaying in the nearby field, even though I couldn’t see them from my distance. I’d beheld his stare before and remembered the unique shade.

“You! Here,” Felix demanded, pointing at the boy.

After breaking eye contact with me, he walked out of the crowd and calmly approached Felix. No fear clouded his face, only a serenity that was uncommon amongst us. He stood in the spot Felix had instructed, and looked up at the man with the same determination he’d expressed to me moments before.

I stared in awe, both curious to see how he fared, but also afraid to witness his likely failure. Those who went up against Felix never came out of it unscathed.

Felix, the large brute of a man, walked circles around the boy. His black hair was tied in a leather strap at the base of his neck, and his bare chest exposed his scarred flesh to the down pouring of heat from the midday sun. A scowl marked his face. After several more circles, he made his move.

But the boy was expecting it. When Felix raised his blunt weapon to hit him in the back, the boy ducked and rolled to the side, getting to his feet directly afterward and facing off with him.

Felix nodded. “Good.”

Then, he lunged again.

The youth slid under the swing, coming out on the other side and kicking Felix in the back of the knee.

Felix didn’t fall, but he stumbled a little, which was the greatest victory any of us had ever gotten against him before. When Felix swung again, the boy wasn’t fast enough, and the weapon collided with the back of his head.

He didn’t stay down for long. Before the object came down on his back, the boy rolled across the dirt and stood, jumping in the air just as Felix tried to trip him.

“I will make a true warrior of you yet,” Felix said and then motioned for the youth to get back in line.

I hadn’t realized I’d been digging my nails into my arm until I felt a sting and looked down to see a faint trace of pink where they had left indentions in my skin.

Once he was back in place, the boy looked over at me. His gaze held mine for several heartbeats, and then he broke contact, not looking back for the rest of training.

The next boy did not fare so well, being knocked to the dirt not even seconds after reaching Felix.

I watched as others were called, but my mind was still on the blond who had moved with such grace, dodging the blows and standing his own against our trainer.

“That is enough for the day,” Felix said, his voice booming across the small arena. “Clean yourselves off and meet in the barracks.”

Just as I turned to leave, Gaius, one of the other instructors, spoke, “Wait!” Once everyone looked his way, he pointed at me and another boy. “You two, come here.”

Gaius was known to be cruel. As hard as Felix worked us, he had always come across to me as someone who had purpose in the punishments and difficult training. But Gaius took great joy in humiliating us.

Felix had walked several paces away and stopped, crossing his strong arms to watch the scene unfold. His jaw was squared, and I suspected he did not fancy whatever Gaius intended.

My heart beat wildly in my chest as I stepped forward, unsure of what awaited me. I walked to the spot he had instructed and stood there, looking at the other boys.

They varied in ages, and each age group was separated into what we called herds. The intriguing blond boy was in the same herd as me, but he’d always kept his distance, preferring solitude…as did the rest of us.

The other youth Gaius had pointed out was about my height and similar build, and he had raven black hair. He approached me in a timid manner with his gaze lowered.

“These youths have shown their cowardice,” Gaius said, stepping between me and the boy and putting his large hands on our shoulders. “What do we do with cowards here in Sparta?”

Boys all started yelling at once. Maim them. Punish. Whip.

It seemed they all grew in confidence once the focus was turned on someone else. A lot of them smiled as they shouted their answer, and another boy picked up a rock and threw it at me.

I ducked just in time.

“Enough!” Gaius stopped their chants and walked forward, pivoting on his heels to stare at me and the boy beside me. “As of this moment, you two are a disgrace. But here is your chance to prove your worth.”

Please, no, I inwardly prayed to whatever god would listen, knowing what Gaius had planned.

Many times, I had witnessed the instructors and some of the older men instigate fights between the trainees. It was a way to tease and humiliate the weak.

He nodded. “Darius and Axios. You are to fight until one of you is unable to continue.” Shifting his stare between me and Darius, he gave a chilling grin. “And if either of you thinks to forfeit, think again. If I see you surrender, I will kill you where you stand.”

My knees shook, and I thought I was going to be ill. Darius looked as if he felt the same. I had never raised a hand to anyone other than Felix for training.

How am I to hit this boy who’s done nothing to me?

Gaius stepped back to give us room and nodded. “Begin.”

At first, nether Darius or I moved. All eyes were on us. Shouts reached my ears as the surrounding trainees egged us on. I observed them as my heart beat wildly. My throat tightened and I felt as if I was going to collapse.

Something crashed into the side of my face and sent me stumbling toward the ground.

I caught myself before I hit and turned to see what had happened. Darius stood before me, all the timidity absent from him, but his eyes still held the uncertainty I felt as well.

He had made the first move.

Now it’s time for me to make mine.

Even though it went against everything I believed in, I lashed out at Darius, hitting him right beneath his left eye. My knuckles cracked with the impact, and by how loud he cried out, I knew I’d hurt him badly.

He snapped his head back to glare at me, a mark already forming on his upper cheek, and he attacked. When he collided with me, we pushed against each other, punching anywhere and everywhere we could.

He jabbed me in my stomach, and I retaliated with a hit to his chest.

My face ached, and I tasted blood on my tongue, but I kept fighting. There was no other choice. Either I fought and won, or I lost. Defeated youths were treated harshly, and I did not wish that upon anyone. But between Darius and me… I chose myself.

I can do this. I will not surrender.

Darius then made a move I had not anticipated. Instead of lunging forward with his attacks like he’d been doing since the beginning of the fight, he rolled under my blow and shoved me from behind.

My footing faltered and I fell to the dirt. Before I could rise up, his arms immediately came around my neck and squeezed, cutting off my air.

I slapped at his forearm, fighting for a breath, and attempted to buck him off. He was much stronger than he had appeared earlier and didn’t budge, crushing me more into the ground. Wild with panic, I struggled against him to no avail.

His knee slammed into my back, and his arms pulled my head backward, putting me at an awkward angle where my limbs refused to function the way I needed them to.

My lungs burned as I continued to thrash around, but my energy was draining quickly. I stared ahead at the other boys and saw many of them smiling.

It was entertainment to them. My life meant nothing, for I was weak. Better to dispose of me now than to have me falter on the battlefield.

One face didn’t smile. The golden-haired boy. He had stepped forward a bit in the line and intensely watched me. His fists were clenched at his sides, and his stance suggested he was debating on whether to approach the fight.

Through my struggles, my arm swung wildly as I tried to hit Darius, but the few instances I did make contact, the hits weren’t powerful enough to do much damage. Then, my hand brushed across something lying in the dirt.

A rock. The same one a boy had thrown at me before the fight started.

Grabbing hold of it, I called forth all the energy I possessed and raised my arm to smash it into the side of Darius’ head. His hold on my neck loosened as he was knocked backward, and I choked out a raspy breath, filling my lungs with the air they’d been denied.

I couldn’t hesitate. Darius will regain his composure soon and attack again.

Although my body screamed with exertion, I flipped around and tackled Darius before he could stand. Blood dripped from the corner of his eye where I’d hit him, and his movements were sluggish as he struggled against me.

Knowing there wasn’t any time for indecision, I straddled his chest and squeezed my knees into his side to hold him down. I slammed my fist into his cheek before hitting him with my other.

Rage blinded me as I repeatedly struck him—anger at my life and what I was forced to become. Angry that something as horrendous as this was not only encouraged but expected. It wasn’t until he stopped struggling under me that I came back to myself and realized what I was doing.

My knuckles were smeared with blood—both my own and his.

Darius stared up at me with swollen, half-shut eyes. His chest slowly rose and fell as a raspy noise left him with each breath he took. I had busted open his lip and nose, and blood streamed from a wound by his ear.

“Finish him,” Gaius commanded from behind me.

No. I cannot.

I looked down at him. Fear clouded his face. He tried to move, but his arms went limp again, and he stilled. Giving up.

Gaius slapped the back of my head. “Show no mercy! He has accepted his defeat now finish him.”

Darius opened his mouth, but no words followed. He reminded me of a fish plucked from the stream. Desperate for life, but unable to flee to safety.

As I stared at him, I felt a tightening in my chest and a twisting in my gut. I knew what I had to do, and the thought alone was almost enough to make me ill.

Everyone watched me. It was not just a fight to see who lost, but also one to see if the victor had it in him to kill. Sparta was no place for the frail or those sensitive to death.

After grabbing the rock that I had dropped before tackling him, I raised my arm and aimed.

Forgive me.

Darius’ eyes widened and he choked out a sob right before I smashed in his skull. I screamed as I hit him, feeling warmth flow between my fingers and splatter on my face with each strike.

His body slumped, and his head lolled to the side as a puddle of blood formed in the dirt. And his eyes watched me.

5. Power Exchange (Power Exchange #1)

Genre : M/M Romance, BDSM, Mystery, Contemporary, Erotica

Type : Tetralogy

Status : On-going series

BLURB :

From the moment Detective Gavin DeGrassi steps into the world of BDSM to solve the brutal slaying of Dom George Kaiser, his course is not his own. Mesmerized by the context in which the victim lived and the images of the lifestyle seared into his soul, Gavin must find a way to navigate these unknown waters. With his personal life in upheaval due to marital trouble, and his professional life uncertain with the assignment of a new partner, Gavin needs all the help he can get understanding the case.

Enter Ben Haverson, a psychologist and a well known Dom. With Ben’s help as a consultant and attention to Gavin’s own murky truths, Gavin delves deeper than he ever thought he would into the world of restraints and paddles. Forced to scrutinize his true nature and his innermost desires, Gavin has a choice: keep the fear of submitting at bay, or dive in and solve the case with the knowledge he gains. When another victim is discovered, Gavin’s choice is made for him, and he’s pulled headlong into the deepest, most emotional journey of his life.

Unfortunately for him and Ben, a killer has noticed, has taken stock, and has set his sights on the D/s pair. Can Gavin outwit him, or will his first exchange of power be his last?

”Excerpt”

CHAPTER 1

Two years ago, St. Louis was listed by the FBI as the most dangerous city in America. Ahead of Washington D.C. and Detroit. Ahead of that one place in New Jersey that “won” it the year before. Not exactly the distinction a cop is proud of. On the other hand, only seven percent of the police agencies in the country are officially accredited by the society awarding such honors, and St. Louis County Police Department is one of these. Still, sometimes the accomplishment is an empty reward to me when I’m on my way to a murder scene. We do the best we can, but sometimes, that accreditation means shit when you walk into someone’s house and their dead eyes are staring at you in silent mockery of your prestigious status.

“DeGrassi.”

I turned at the sound of my name as I exited my unmarked car on a quiet suburban street lined with trees and filled with the sounds of lawn mowers and kids riding bikes. The late spring sun would make the afternoon hot, but just before noon on a Saturday at the end of May, it was warm and pleasant.

Except for this being a murder scene. I made eye contact with one of the patrolmen guarding the front door, the one who’d called my name. He stood as far from the open door as he could get while still manning it and his face looked pale. I didn’t know him well, but I didn’t have to in order to recognize the haunted look he wore. “Back room, down the hall and to the left.”

“Bedroom?” I asked.

He hesitated. “I’m not sure what kind of room it is.”

That gave me pause. Stepping into the protective booties that my brother, Cole, would nail me to the wall for forgetting, I let myself in, following the sounds to the back of a well-appointed ranch-style house in one of the more affluent neighborhoods of Chesterfield. Plush carpeting muffled the sound of feet traipsing about, most of them belonging to the crime scene unit. I could tell by the umpteen-syllable words I heard, the language of the truly geeky. As I passed through the front foyer, I spotted a woman with a cute blond ponytail and red-rimmed eyes talking to a patrol officer in quiet tones. Turning down the hallway toward the hive of activity, I came to the door and paused. Veteran homicide detective or not, I still had to steel myself for it, taking one last deep breath before facing the sight of another body.

Even with that bolstering, I wasn’t prepared for the view. The victim, a mid-forties-ish man in fairly good shape, was held in place by rope to a wooden X suspended from the ceiling by chains attached to heavy-duty hooks. His chest was crisscrossed with slashes that slicked his torso with blood. He was naked. It wasn’t quite Jesus-like, because the cross wasn’t T-shaped, and his feet were tied wide apart, but it was damn close. His hands were fisted and purple against the bindings, and his head was held up by a collar around his neck, affixed to a taut chain anchored to the ceiling, forcing his blank gaze outward. It was like walking by a painting and having the eyes follow you no matter where you went. Making the whole thing more macabre were four squiggly black lines drawn down the man’s face, from his eyes to the edge of his jaw, two per cheek spaced closely together. The creep aspect went up by a factor of ten because of those lines alone. I suppressed a shudder, trying to don my professionalism like a cloak. The strobe of the CSI cameras gave the whole thing a Silence of the Lambs effect, particularly the scene when Hannibal Lector escaped custody. I shivered despite the warmth of late spring.

“Holy shit,” I muttered, stepping all the way into the room but remaining by the wall as the techs gathered evidence.

“Holy shit is right, Gavin,” a familiar voice said. I looked toward my brother, Cole, his usually merry blue eyes dampened by solemnity as he carefully goose-stepped across the room to stand beside me, watching his techs do their jobs with a strange sadness mixed with pride. Cole’s the lead CSI, and I rarely got the opportunity to work with him because of the potential for nepotistic back-scratching where evidence is concerned, but sometimes, there just aren’t enough people to assign us to separate cases. We go out of our way to keep the chain of custody impeccable. Cops are family everywhere, but ours was literally so.

“Where’s Sawyer?” he asked, voice muffled by the face mask he wore. He held one out to me, but I waved it off. I planned to do nothing but observe so as not to taint evidence, and the masks never did anything to alleviate the smell.

“He was across town with his daughter at a softball tournament. Had to wait for his ex. He’s on his way.” Trent Sawyer was my partner, and despite his take-charge attitude, I knew he’d appreciate anything I could find out while he was running behind. “What have you got for me?”

“Body was discovered this morning by the vic’s ex-wife, who stopped by when he didn’t show to pick up their kids for a weekend visit. M.E. hasn’t been here to view the body, so we don’t have a time of death yet, but from what I can tell by looking at him, the injuries were all pre-mortem. Have to wait for autopsy to confirm.”

I nodded, taking notes. “Victim ID?”

“George Kaiser, forty-five, worked as an engineer for a car diagnostics manufacturer.”

I gestured to the cross, the ropes, and over on the futon in the corner, an array of implements more likely found at Home Depot than the—what kind of room was this, actually? Addams’ family guest room? Den of iniquity?—spare room of a professional businessman. Well, he was an engineer. Maybe this was a workshop of sorts. “Was all this brought here, gathered from around the house or what?” It was the question of the hour, because it was clear the tools had been used extensively on the victim.

“You’d have to ask the ex-wife what she knows about it, but my guess is it was already here. There’s no ceiling plaster on the floor to indicate the hooks were drilled recently, and there’s a latch up there,” he tilted his head so my gaze would follow, “that looks like it fits the bottom of the cross, so it can be secured to the ceiling, out of the way. And that dresser over there,” he pointed to the opposite wall where a long, squat dresser sat beneath a window covered with heavy drapes and thick blinds, “has more… equipment in it. The cross wouldn’t be easily transported in the trunk of a car, but our perp could have had a truck or SUV.”

I gave him a strange look, about to ask more when a voice interrupted me.

“Whoa,” Trent said, standing in the doorway, dark eyes wide and staring, his black hair windblown, which told me he’d driven with the top down on his convertible. “Someone had quite the party.” He gingerly stepped beside me, and I told him what Cole had found. “Kinky,” was all he said. I rolled my eyes.

“This is out of even your league in the bedroom,” I said. Trent loved to brag about his mattress Olympics, so I knew more than I wanted to about his exploits, which were many, considering his calculated charm. Victoria told me it was his confidence that was magnetic. I figured he was conceited and just hid it until after a tumble in the sheets. Turning back to Cole as he watched one of his techs take measurements of what looked like a cat o’ nine tails, I asked, “Is there a knife or something that matches the chest wounds?”

“No knife, but those look like whip marks to me, not slashes with a blade,” Cole said. I gave him a questioning look. “What? I worked an animal cruelty case two years ago where the breeder whipped the horses to train them.” His disgust was clear. “Poor animals had to be put down from infections and inability to be around humans. Completely broken. But their lacerations were similar.” He pointed to the whip the tech was tagging and bagging in a paper bag so as not to smear prints. “I’ll test it in the lab, but that could be responsible for the chest lacerations. Or there might be another one in the pile.”

I was about to ask what he made of the markings on the face when my attention was diverted. The soothing grumble of the county M.E. carried through the doorway, and all activity in the room stopped to make way for him near the body. Dr. Stanley Jencopale was a presence in any room, but at a crime scene, he was often the voice of reason in a chaotic swarm. He could take the worst injuries and make clinical sense of them, scrub them of their heinousness, and break down the information into manageable chunks, all without dehumanizing the victim. Something this… exotic would automatically fall to him.

“Oh, you poor, poor thing,” he mumbled to the victim, donning gloves with an authoritative snap. He checked body temperature and for rigor, pulling the dead man’s eyelids wide as his thermometer did its thing. Throughout his assessment, he spoke to the silent room while Trent and I took more notes.

“Male Caucasian, middle-aged, dead approximately seven to nine hours, which puts time of death between,” he looked at his watch, “four and six a.m. this morning, indicated by body temperature. Cause of death, on initial assessment, appears to be strangulation. Petechial hemorrhage across the cheeks, as well as deep bruising around neck area. Significant blood loss from multiple lacerations to chest and abdomen. Bruising of extremities and rope marks on the skin indicate the victim was alive when affixed to the cross, and suspended for several hours. Victim’s genitals show signs of loss of circulation from clamp device.” Oh god, I hadn’t noticed the cock ring, and I tried not to look too closely. “Help me get this cross down from the ceiling.”

Cole hurried forward with a swarm of CSI techs, two of whom spread a plastic sheet to keep fibers from transferring between the body and the deep carpeting, on which there was blood splatter, already photographed. They collectively lifted the apparatus to take the weight off the chains, including the one attached to the collar, before removing the chains from the ceiling hooks and carefully lowering the body to the plastic tarp. They stepped back, waiting for the doctor to indicate if he needed the ropes loosened. At his nod, Cole untied the feet and placed the rope in a large evidence bag. Flashes strobed as photos were taken of the injuries sustained to the victim’s ankles. Dr. Jencopale waved them off.

“I will photograph the injuries during autopsy. You’ve got the placement of the body documented already, so leave the rest to me.” The reprimand was gentle but enough of a hint for the crowd to back off as he continued his examination. A few of them returned to the futon to resume cataloguing the equipment on the cushion.

“DeGrassi, you have an ultraviolet light on you?”

He clearly meant Cole, since I hadn’t had a black light or anything like it since my college dorm days when my then-best friend Pete and I would smoke pot to celebrate the end of each semester, enhancing the effect with dramatic wall posters and a black light. Damn, I haven’t thought about him in years. I stopped short of wondering what Pete was up to. Inappropriate right now, not to mention I didn’t need the reminder in the first place. I refocused on the body as Cole donned a pair of goofy, 3D-looking glasses and shined a light across the victim’s skin.

“A little saliva around the mouth, which looks to be the vic’s, in a pattern consistent with a gag, but we’ll swab it anyway to confirm. I see no signs of semen or other body fluids. Not on the anterior view.” He passed the light and glasses to the doctor, who nodded his affirmation.

Cole and Dr. Jencopale untied the victim’s hands and head from the cross and rolled him face down. Another sweep of the light brought a collective shake of their heads. Cole grabbed his kit, extracted several swabs and, with the doctor’s permission, spot checked specific areas of the body, including the victim’s rectum. “We’ll see what Trace has to say, but again, posterior examination shows nothing seminal.”

“Victim was anally penetrated, and not gently. Microtears around the anus and blood evidence ringing the orifice. An internal check will say more, but it’s pretty clear from initial assessment that he was raped.” They gently returned him to his back, the plastic sheeting crinkling beneath the weight. Cole and the doctor spoke softly about which evidence needed to be collected from the body right away and what could be done at the lab during post. Jencopale waved two of his assistants into the room after Cole did a single thorough sweep for trace evidence, then backed off as George Kaiser was bagged and carried to the gurney. The CSI crew continued their check of the room, paying particular attention to the cross, now that its burden had been removed. I closed my notepad and motioned to Cole. He pulled the mask down to his neck and stood in front of Trent and me with his hands on his hips.

Two years ago, St. Louis was listed by the FBI as the most dangerous city in America. Ahead of Washington D.C. and Detroit. Ahead of that one place in New Jersey that “won” it the year before. Not exactly the distinction a cop is proud of. On the other hand, only seven percent of the police agencies in the country are officially accredited by the society awarding such honors, and St. Louis County Police Department is one of these. Still, sometimes the accomplishment is an empty reward to me when I’m on my way to a murder scene. We do the best we can, but sometimes, that accreditation means shit when you walk into someone’s house and their dead eyes are staring at you in silent mockery of your prestigious status.

“DeGrassi.”

I turned at the sound of my name as I exited my unmarked car on a quiet suburban street lined with trees and filled with the sounds of lawn mowers and kids riding bikes. The late spring sun would make the afternoon hot, but just before noon on a Saturday at the end of May, it was warm and pleasant.

Except for this being a murder scene. I made eye contact with one of the patrolmen guarding the front door, the one who’d called my name. He stood as far from the open door as he could get while still manning it and his face looked pale. I didn’t know him well, but I didn’t have to in order to recognize the haunted look he wore. “Back room, down the hall and to the left.”

“Bedroom?” I asked.

He hesitated. “I’m not sure what kind of room it is.”

That gave me pause. Stepping into the protective booties that my brother, Cole, would nail me to the wall for forgetting, I let myself in, following the sounds to the back of a well-appointed ranch-style house in one of the more affluent neighborhoods of Chesterfield. Plush carpeting muffled the sound of feet traipsing about, most of them belonging to the crime scene unit. I could tell by the umpteen-syllable words I heard, the language of the truly geeky. As I passed through the front foyer, I spotted a woman with a cute blond ponytail and red-rimmed eyes talking to a patrol officer in quiet tones. Turning down the hallway toward the hive of activity, I came to the door and paused. Veteran homicide detective or not, I still had to steel myself for it, taking one last deep breath before facing the sight of another body.

Even with that bolstering, I wasn’t prepared for the view. The victim, a mid-forties-ish man in fairly good shape, was held in place by rope to a wooden X suspended from the ceiling by chains attached to heavy-duty hooks. His chest was crisscrossed with slashes that slicked his torso with blood. He was naked. It wasn’t quite Jesus-like, because the cross wasn’t T-shaped, and his feet were tied wide apart, but it was damn close. His hands were fisted and purple against the bindings, and his head was held up by a collar around his neck, affixed to a taut chain anchored to the ceiling, forcing his blank gaze outward. It was like walking by a painting and having the eyes follow you no matter where you went. Making the whole thing more macabre were four squiggly black lines drawn down the man’s face, from his eyes to the edge of his jaw, two per cheek spaced closely together. The creep aspect went up by a factor of ten because of those lines alone. I suppressed a shudder, trying to don my professionalism like a cloak. The strobe of the CSI cameras gave the whole thing a Silence of the Lambs effect, particularly the scene when Hannibal Lector escaped custody. I shivered despite the warmth of late spring.

“Holy shit,” I muttered, stepping all the way into the room but remaining by the wall as the techs gathered evidence.

“Holy shit is right, Gavin,” a familiar voice said. I looked toward my brother, Cole, his usually merry blue eyes dampened by solemnity as he carefully goose-stepped across the room to stand beside me, watching his techs do their jobs with a strange sadness mixed with pride. Cole’s the lead CSI, and I rarely got the opportunity to work with him because of the potential for nepotistic back-scratching where evidence is concerned, but sometimes, there just aren’t enough people to assign us to separate cases. We go out of our way to keep the chain of custody impeccable. Cops are family everywhere, but ours was literally so.

“Where’s Sawyer?” he asked, voice muffled by the face mask he wore. He held one out to me, but I waved it off. I planned to do nothing but observe so as not to taint evidence, and the masks never did anything to alleviate the smell.

“He was across town with his daughter at a softball tournament. Had to wait for his ex. He’s on his way.” Trent Sawyer was my partner, and despite his take-charge attitude, I knew he’d appreciate anything I could find out while he was running behind. “What have you got for me?”

“Body was discovered this morning by the vic’s ex-wife, who stopped by when he didn’t show to pick up their kids for a weekend visit. M.E. hasn’t been here to view the body, so we don’t have a time of death yet, but from what I can tell by looking at him, the injuries were all pre-mortem. Have to wait for autopsy to confirm.”

I nodded, taking notes. “Victim ID?”

“George Kaiser, forty-five, worked as an engineer for a car diagnostics manufacturer.”

I gestured to the cross, the ropes, and over on the futon in the corner, an array of implements more likely found at Home Depot than the—what kind of room was this, actually? Addams’ family guest room? Den of iniquity?—spare room of a professional businessman. Well, he was an engineer. Maybe this was a workshop of sorts. “Was all this brought here, gathered from around the house or what?” It was the question of the hour, because it was clear the tools had been used extensively on the victim.

“You’d have to ask the ex-wife what she knows about it, but my guess is it was already here. There’s no ceiling plaster on the floor to indicate the hooks were drilled recently, and there’s a latch up there,” he tilted his head so my gaze would follow, “that looks like it fits the bottom of the cross, so it can be secured to the ceiling, out of the way. And that dresser over there,” he pointed to the opposite wall where a long, squat dresser sat beneath a window covered with heavy drapes and thick blinds, “has more… equipment in it. The cross wouldn’t be easily transported in the trunk of a car, but our perp could have had a truck or SUV.”

I gave him a strange look, about to ask more when a voice interrupted me.

“Whoa,” Trent said, standing in the doorway, dark eyes wide and staring, his black hair windblown, which told me he’d driven with the top down on his convertible. “Someone had quite the party.” He gingerly stepped beside me, and I told him what Cole had found. “Kinky,” was all he said. I rolled my eyes.

“This is out of even your league in the bedroom,” I said. Trent loved to brag about his mattress Olympics, so I knew more than I wanted to about his exploits, which were many, considering his calculated charm. Victoria told me it was his confidence that was magnetic. I figured he was conceited and just hid it until after a tumble in the sheets. Turning back to Cole as he watched one of his techs take measurements of what looked like a cat o’ nine tails, I asked, “Is there a knife or something that matches the chest wounds?”

“No knife, but those look like whip marks to me, not slashes with a blade,” Cole said. I gave him a questioning look. “What? I worked an animal cruelty case two years ago where the breeder whipped the horses to train them.” His disgust was clear. “Poor animals had to be put down from infections and inability to be around humans. Completely broken. But their lacerations were similar.” He pointed to the whip the tech was tagging and bagging in a paper bag so as not to smear prints. “I’ll test it in the lab, but that could be responsible for the chest lacerations. Or there might be another one in the pile.”

I was about to ask what he made of the markings on the face when my attention was diverted. The soothing grumble of the county M.E. carried through the doorway, and all activity in the room stopped to make way for him near the body. Dr. Stanley Jencopale was a presence in any room, but at a crime scene, he was often the voice of reason in a chaotic swarm. He could take the worst injuries and make clinical sense of them, scrub them of their heinousness, and break down the information into manageable chunks, all without dehumanizing the victim. Something this… exotic would automatically fall to him.

“Oh, you poor, poor thing,” he mumbled to the victim, donning gloves with an authoritative snap. He checked body temperature and for rigor, pulling the dead man’s eyelids wide as his thermometer did its thing. Throughout his assessment, he spoke to the silent room while Trent and I took more notes.

“Male Caucasian, middle-aged, dead approximately seven to nine hours, which puts time of death between,” he looked at his watch, “four and six a.m. this morning, indicated by body temperature. Cause of death, on initial assessment, appears to be strangulation. Petechial hemorrhage across the cheeks, as well as deep bruising around neck area. Significant blood loss from multiple lacerations to chest and abdomen. Bruising of extremities and rope marks on the skin indicate the victim was alive when affixed to the cross, and suspended for several hours. Victim’s genitals show signs of loss of circulation from clamp device.” Oh god, I hadn’t noticed the cock ring, and I tried not to look too closely. “Help me get this cross down from the ceiling.”

Cole hurried forward with a swarm of CSI techs, two of whom spread a plastic sheet to keep fibers from transferring between the body and the deep carpeting, on which there was blood splatter, already photographed. They collectively lifted the apparatus to take the weight off the chains, including the one attached to the collar, before removing the chains from the ceiling hooks and carefully lowering the body to the plastic tarp. They stepped back, waiting for the doctor to indicate if he needed the ropes loosened. At his nod, Cole untied the feet and placed the rope in a large evidence bag. Flashes strobed as photos were taken of the injuries sustained to the victim’s ankles. Dr. Jencopale waved them off.

“I will photograph the injuries during autopsy. You’ve got the placement of the body documented already, so leave the rest to me.” The reprimand was gentle but enough of a hint for the crowd to back off as he continued his examination. A few of them returned to the futon to resume cataloguing the equipment on the cushion.

“DeGrassi, you have an ultraviolet light on you?”

He clearly meant Cole, since I hadn’t had a black light or anything like it since my college dorm days when my then-best friend Pete and I would smoke pot to celebrate the end of each semester, enhancing the effect with dramatic wall posters and a black light. Damn, I haven’t thought about him in years. I stopped short of wondering what Pete was up to. Inappropriate right now, not to mention I didn’t need the reminder in the first place. I refocused on the body as Cole donned a pair of goofy, 3D-looking glasses and shined a light across the victim’s skin.

“A little saliva around the mouth, which looks to be the vic’s, in a pattern consistent with a gag, but we’ll swab it anyway to confirm. I see no signs of semen or other body fluids. Not on the anterior view.” He passed the light and glasses to the doctor, who nodded his affirmation.

Cole and Dr. Jencopale untied the victim’s hands and head from the cross and rolled him face down. Another sweep of the light brought a collective shake of their heads. Cole grabbed his kit, extracted several swabs and, with the doctor’s permission, spot checked specific areas of the body, including the victim’s rectum. “We’ll see what Trace has to say, but again, posterior examination shows nothing seminal.”

“Victim was anally penetrated, and not gently. Microtears around the anus and blood evidence ringing the orifice. An internal check will say more, but it’s pretty clear from initial assessment that he was raped.” They gently returned him to his back, the plastic sheeting crinkling beneath the weight. Cole and the doctor spoke softly about which evidence needed to be collected from the body right away and what could be done at the lab during post. Jencopale waved two of his assistants into the room after Cole did a single thorough sweep for trace evidence, then backed off as George Kaiser was bagged and carried to the gurney. The CSI crew continued their check of the room, paying particular attention to the cross, now that its burden had been removed. I closed my notepad and motioned to Cole. He pulled the mask down to his neck and stood in front of Trent and me with his hands on his hips.